Wishes of the Heart
by Gabriezzu
Summary: Before the whole Angel of Music fiasco started, Mamma Valérius falls ill, and a desperate Christine looks for help in the only friend she has, The Voice in her dressing room. He offers his help, and in exchange, she promises to give him the only thing he has ever wished for: a living wife. Purely Leroux-based. Rating may change.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera does not belong to me, because believe me, if it were, poor, unhappy Erik would not have been so poor and unhappy!

Part I: Christine

Christine looked at her reflexion in the mirror once more, putting her hairbrush down with a shaky sigh.

Her golden hair was delicately tied in a modest style with a small blue hairpin -old and borrowed- that enhanced the color of her eyes. Her dress, of the purest white color and exquisite design, was simple in contrast with the elegant attires that women of the high class should probably wear in her same situation, she supposed, but it served its purpose of enhancing her best attributes and hiding the worsts.

Now she was only missing the veil, and she would be a perfect living bride.

She took the wretched object with trembling fingers, and still looking in the mirror, she put the veil on her head.

Christine could not stand the view. With aggressive urgency, she took the object off and had to resist the urge of throwing it across the room, as a little girl having a temper tantrum would.

Instead, she clasped the veil tightly in her hands and looked up once more to the mirror. She looked well without it, and could even pass as a normal bride, she thought, if it had not been for the noticeable lack of color on her usually rosy cheeks and the bags under her eyes. She pinched her face to make it regain some color and forced a smile to creep into her mouth, ignoring how the left corner quivered slightly at the effort. Her eyes looked empty.

She had no time to do more, for soon she heard the distinct knock of the door on the first floor, that more than the simple sound of metal against wood, it sounded like a guillotine blade ready to fall.

And she was right under it.

She dismissed the thought with a small forced giggle that equaled the awful smile before advancing towards the door of the room that would soon stop being hers. Christine took a deep breath, and before she could think any further, she emerged to the hallway, making her way to the top of the stairs, while in her hand still clutched the damned veil.

In the threshold, not quite outside and yet not quite inside either, stood a tall dark figure wearing an impeccable suit, hat, and cane. It was the living image of a gentleman; slightly inclined to hear the words of the small maid who had opened the door for him.

Before Christine could make her presence known, still standing at the top of the stairs, the figure looked in her direction, freezing her in her place.

The man wore a white mask that covered completely his face, and his eyes were hidden under the shadow of the rim of his hat. And yet she could feel his stare scanning every inch of her. Perhaps he was making sure he had chosen the right prize.

"Good evening, Christine," he said as he entered the house and the maid closed the door behind him. Calmness and merriness were noticeable in his voice, and yet that only made the little color that remained in Christine's face disappear.

Any doubt -and hope- she might have had about the man's identity disappeared into thin air: It was him, the Voice. With a living, breathing body made of flesh and blood just like hers. Her guide, her guardian, and her teacher.

And now her future husband, too, even if he still did not show a face.

"Good evening, Monsieur," she answered as she descended the stairs to the middle, trying her best to sound relaxed, "I'm afraid my Mamma's condition forbids her to leave her bedchamber, and we shall need to go there to have a word with her. Please, follow me, monsieur, my Mamma is waiting."

She turned around to ascend once again, perhaps a little stiffer and faster than she had intended, without ever turning back to be sure he was following. His steps were soundless, and that only unnerved her even more.

"I have brought you this," he said suddenly once they reached the top of the stairs, with his voice coming almost too quickly and slightly betraying his attempts to hide his nervousness.

He moved the hand that had until that moment being tightly clasped behind his back. A rose without thorns was delicately held between his long slender fingers; the red of the petals contrasting with the white of his gloves like fresh blood on snow.

She forced a smile and took the rose; their fingers never brushing, not even by mistake.

"It is beautiful, thank you," she said, bringing it closer to her face to smell its perfume. It was odorless.

"You look stunningly beautiful, Christine; all the angels in heaven would envy you tonight," he said, and Christine's throat tightened.

She offered another false smile and turned once again and kept walking towards Mme. Valérius' room, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling his usually well-received kind words had caused in her. She knocked on the door softly and entered followed by the man after hearing her Mamma's answer.

"Mamma," Christine started, trying her best to keep her voice normal and even forcing a bit of false excitement in it, "he's here; this is my fiancé."

Christine softly brushed the man's arm, but she did not feel the extremity underneath the clothes. They hung so big in him that his body lost its shape beneath the fabric.

"Oh, the Angel of Music is finally here!" Exclaimed the soft yet firm voice of Madame Valérious, who laid in her bed, with the covers up to the chin. Christine quickly moved to hold her arm and help her sit.

The man greeted her politely, but Christine noted that he made no attempt to move closer as if the threshold provided some kind of safety to him. Under the mask, the expression of the man had changed to one of confusion after hearing the strange name.

"I am very thankful with you for receiving me tonight despite the unfortunate circumstances," he started, his voice as melodious as always, "for it would be an honor for us to receive your blessing for our marriage."

Madame Valérious, who had been trying to hold a cup of tea without her unhealthy pale and trembling hands making her spill its content, slowly set her cup down.

"Christine informed me about it," She said, looking at them, "And as I told her, I shall tell you too, Monsieur: I do not understand this rushed course of actions! But since it is my sweet Christine's decision, I cannot deny it."

Oh, on moments like those Christine could almost forget of her Mamma's condition! The woman could be so lucid every once in a while, that it brought a bitter taste to Christine's mouth every time she remembered that those moments of clarity would become less and less frequent. That was if she did not do something about it, as Christine repeated in her head for perhaps the billionth time that week alone.

Madame Valérious smiled, looked down for a moment, and then continued:

"But, my dear, are you completely sure?"

"Yes," Christine replied automatically, allowing no time for the question to plant any kind of doubt in her.

"Then you have my blessing, but..." the woman made another pause, and from the corner of her eye, Christine saw the strange man clutching his cane harder. She could have sworn that his shoulders also tensed, but his suit fitted him so poorly that it was impossible to confirm it.

"Why so quick?" She finally asked. Christine let out a sigh, without even noticing before that she was holding her breath.

When Christine had first told Madame Valérius of her decision, she had begged her to not ask any questions to her fiancé on the day her Mamma met him, partly because the Voice had been initially very reluctant in meeting her guardian at all, and partly because she herself did not want to have to answer anything. However, she had needed to satisfy her Mamma's curiosity on her own and had even told her a few lies - especially about the motive for their union.

"We just think it is time," the man answered, his tone sounding more relaxed. His grip on the cane had also lessened. He quickly continued before the woman could ask so much, "I know, madame, that it is untraditional of me to do this, but I have come tonight to take Christine with me. The wedding arrangements are made, and it is to be celebrated tonight."

The old woman's eyes widened in surprise, and her wrinkled hand came up to her face to fix her glasses. Mamma Valérius, bless her soul, had not even noticed the young couple were already in their wedding attire.

"Oh, I see, then!" Her Mamma smiled, "it is because angels have limited time for these mortal activities, am I right? Must be!"

A month before, Christine would have giggled at her Mamma's silliness; always so distracted and imaginative! Now, however, this had only brought a sad smile to Christine's face and pain to her heart.

And now that Christine found herself in a carriage, with her bag by her side and an engagement ring on her finger, she had to remind herself, while tightly gripping her expensive-looking dress, that she was doing this for her, for her mamma.

She closed her eyes and let the memories of a week before flood her mind:

It had hardly been her seventh lesson with the Voice, and she had come nearly half an hour late to the dressing room. The Voice, never the patient type, took no time before remarking on this.

She had then turned around, her eyes full of yet-unshed tears, and whatever disapproving remark that had been about to be said, was immediately replaced for ones of concern:

"Christine, whatever is wrong? Why are you crying? It pains me to see you cry," The Voice had asked, and Christine, not being able to hold it back any longer, had simply let the tears fall free.

She had only known this person -and was not even sure he was a person back then- for a little more than three weeks, and yet he already had had her complete trust. Something in the way he always seemed so concern, so attentive, so interested in every gossip and senseless talk they had even when it was the most boring of things, like how she had lost a button the night before when trying to fix her dress or how one of the eggs she had bought for breakfast had broken in her bag, had made him her biggest confident in a matter of days.

"It's my mamma. Mamma Valérious," she said, her beautiful voice flooding with worry and sadness.

"Is she alright?" Replied the Voice, and the genuine concern evident in his words only made Christine cried harder.

She had to cover her mouth for a moment to drown the sobs before answering:

"No, she is not," cried Christine, "Oh, she is so ill! So, so ill! The doctors insist that there is still hope, but she requires such expensive treatments! Oh, Angel, we would never be able to afford it! Her small fortune was so foolishly spent in my artistic education, and my salary as a chorus girl would never be enough! We could never afford the treatment, and yet I would do anything for the money to help her! I owe her everything I have! She's... she's the only family I still have... And I... And I..."

After that, she had not been able to say more, for her own weeping made it impossible for her to continue. Her angel, as she had dared to think of him at that moment, spoke:

"I can give you the money."

Her eyes had snapped open at that moment, looking up to the mirror in front of her. She had been so lost in her grief that had not even noticed when she had fallen on her knees and buried her face on her hands.

"No, I cannot accept that!" She exclaimed, "the money is too much for me to ever repay you!"

"Then you do not need to ever repay me," the Voice had argued as if stating the obvious.

"That would just make it worse!" She cried, "I cannot have such a debt with you, who have been always so kind to me! I need a way to repay you. Tell me how I beg you! Tell me what can I do for you, what do you want, and I shall give it to you instead!"

There had been a long pause in which she thought for a horrifying moment that the Voice had left her, and the thought alone had almost brought new tears to her eyes. After all, what could a simple chorus girl have to offer?

"Marry me," he had said with a trembling voice that made Christine think that, perhaps, he was crying too, "Marry me and let me share my life with you. That is all I want."

Her mouth had opened slightly in surprise, not expecting such proposal, and her own reflexion looked back at her in astonishment between the remaining of tears and swollen eyes. The Voice must have then mistaken her silence for a refusal, for it quickly tried to fix the situation, which had suddenly filled with tension:

"It is not necessary if you do not wish to do it. I will give you the money regardless of your answer, Christine, for simply making you happy is enough payment already. I do not want to-"

"I will," she interrupted him, taking her decision firmly before he regretted his own idea, "I will be your wife, and will let you share your life with me. Just give me a week."

The next morning, she had found on her dressing room the engagement ring that now seemed to burn on her skin and the veil that she clutched in her hands as if her life depended on it.

He was her guide, her guardian, her protector, and for a brief moment, she had considered that perhaps he was also her Angel of Music, as Mamma Valérious had suggested, and she already felt in debt with him. She had thought, at that moment of bravery, that even if she could never repay him with money, she would pay him with her heart, body, and mind.

It was, she thought, a small price to pay for her Mamma's health and for him to have made her song take wing once again.

But now, a week later and finally realizing the real impact her promise would have on the rest of her life, she could not help feeling as if she had dug her own grave. How could all the trust she had felt for her dear invisible friend have vanished into thin air as soon as he had become more than a silly invention of her imagination?

Was it, perhaps, the cold realization that she had in fact been locking herself each day with a real man in her room? Where was her decency, the purity she was most proud about? In the end, she thought, she had ended up like many other chorus girls in her position did, even though she always swore she would never sell her life and love for the sake of luxury.

She felt almost betrayed by his existence, she realized. She had not asked him directly -though she had planned to do it soon- whether or not he was an Angel, so in truth, he had not lied to her. But it still felt oddly impossible and indecent for him to be a living man. Christine discovered, once again, that the reality was that she had never asked about his origin because she had not wanted to. She had wanted to pretend that he was nothing but a Voice; perhaps even the Angel her father had promised and her Mamma had suggested, but without truly getting a confirmation nor a denial.

She looked down to her folded hands, where her engagement ring shone in the last moments of daylight.

Even in its simplicity, it was a beautiful thing: a precious, delicate band of gold adorning her hand. But it felt incredibly wrong, and the size had nothing to do with that sensation. Wearing it felt like blasphemy; profaning a symbol of love and promises for something as vile as money was, and the mere sight of it resting so placidly on her finger made her wince.

She knew she should be happy about this. She was going to get married! She should want this. But she didn't. She felt trapped in a cage like a mouse put into a snake's tank to be devoured.

And his silence was not helping either.

The man had not said a single word or made a single sound since they had parted from Mme. Valérious' house, and now, in the near darkness of the dusk, his presence was starting to feel even more out of place, with his hidden eyes scanning her every move once again. He seemed to be studying her.

"What is your name?" She asked without even thinking. She was suffocating under his invisible gaze.

"My name..." he made a small pause, almost as if he tried to remember, "I do not know the name my mother gave me if she ever gave me one, but you may call me Erik."

The name sent a shiver down her spine as if the name did not belong to her future husband, but rather, her killer, her inquisitor, her personal demon. Erik, the evil spirit. Erik, the demonic violinist. Erik, the-

No. Erik, the man. Just like that. No angel, no voice, no demon. Just a human. Her fiancé.

"Erik," she tried the name, rolling it in her tongue to tattoo it in her mind, "it is not French."

"You are probably right," he answered, but gave no further explanation.

They continued in silence for the rest of the journey; with his eyes still absorbing every move she made, and with her still trying to pretend that it didn't bother her.

By the time the carriage stopped in front of a small church, the daylight had almost completely disappeared. Growing shadows covered the world, devouring the light. Christine could not avoid feeling that that was exactly what was occurring to her life, too.

Erik descended from the carriage, and after a moment of consideration, offered his gloved hand for Christine to hold it and help her get down. She offered an awkward smile of gratitude and took it.

She had to suppress a gasp.

His hand was frozen and extremely bony, and in the fraction of a moment in which their hands joined, the horrid idea of his hand being nothing but rotting bones under the white clothing appeared in her head and made her jerk her hand away and cradle it against her chest instinctively.

"Forgive me!" He babbled with such regret impregnating his words, that she was ready to give him her hand again, but he had jerked his hand back as quickly as her, almost as if her touch -or rather, her reaction, thought Christine with shame- had burned him, taking a step back, before she even had the time to move again, "Forgive your Erik!"

And he moved out of her sight to the front of the carriage before she had blinked, leaving Christine to descend by herself, alone with her thoughts.

In the lapse of a second, she had seen the most vulnerable of creatures. His tone, his movements, his reaction; everything had made her think of an abandoned street dog who had known nothing but unkindness in its life. And she felt like she had just thrown another rock to it, adding one more to the endless list of scars. The thought filled her with a mixture of guilt, shame, and sadness, but under it all, a strange hint of curiosity also bloomed.

"Come, Christine," Erik said coming back from the front, straightening his waistcoat and with his composure intact once again, as if the incident of just a moment before had never happened. Yet, she noticed he kept his distance, "it's getting late."

He started pacing towards the front of the church, and Christine followed right after, silently thanking that he had not offered her his arm, and feeling guilty about that sentiment of relief.

The church was everything but amazing. It had already looked small from the outside, but Christine had the sensation that it was even smaller inside; with barely three rows of seats in each side, the rug under her feet in a desperate need for cleaning, a forgotten organ in the corner, and the altar in the front consisting of nothing but a gigantic wooden cross on the wall and a long table covered in a white cloth.

Nevertheless, it was still a church, and Christine thanked the heavens that she had at least been able to get married in the house of God. His presence reminded her that this was her place, for every son and daughter had the sacred duty to see and care for their fathers and mothers because even if Mamma Valérius was not truly her mother, the woman had taken care of her and loved her since a very young age. Christine took a deep breath and thought that this was right, this was for her; for her Mamma. The thought gave her strength.

Erik cleared his throat and announced to what Christine thought the empty space of their arrival.

"Ah! Is it the couple? Come, come! We must begin at once!" Said a voice coming from the front bench. An old man dressed as a priest stood up, and Christine felt almost ashamed for not having noticed his presence.

Erik walked to the altar without turning to Christine's direction, and she followed right after.

"Wait," said Erik, raising his hand to stop Christine. He walked slowly towards her, and in a quick and agile move took the veil from her hands -she had completely forgotten the existence of the object, but her rigid muscles apparently had not-, and in an instant he had adjusted it over her head and covered delicately her face with it, "It is the tradition for the groom to wait for his bride at the altar."

And before she could say anything else, Erik moved to the altar. He folded his hand in front of him, and patiently waited for her, shamelessly looking in her direction as the expression of his mask remained unreadable. The music of an organ sounded weakly, and Christine found no force in herself to turn her head and see who was playing the instrument.

Christine closed her eyes as she took the first steps to the altar. In her mind, she was in a beautiful cathedral; the light of the day coming in different colors through the colorful designs of the windows, and the infinite rows of benches were filled with happy faces -among them, Mamma Valérious and her dear parents stood out-, admiring the stunning young bride, whose own happiness could light up the whole place. Her groom was waiting, tall and handsome but oh, so kind and with the sweetest smile in the world; with his undying love for her radiating from his every pore.

Yes, that was a wonderful fantasy. She decided that said fantasy was better than her cruel reality, and by the time she came down from her cloud, the stranger and she were already husband and wife.

It was just time for the kiss. 

Author's Note: Hello! I hope you enjoyed this first chapter; I swear I poured what little I have left of my heart in it! Forgive me for the cheesy title, but I'm honestly empty when it comes to that. I guess I'll stick to that one until I find another one I feel fits better. I'm trying to stay as faithful to the original book characters as possible, so all comments, suggestions and tactful critics are really, really appreciated!:)


	2. Chapter 2

Part II: Christine

Christine and Erik had both needed a moment to understand the meaning of the priest's words.

"You may kiss the bride"

Kiss the bride. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss the bride.

She was the bride. He was the groom.

Both the husband's and the bride's stomachs turned at the thought, though their respective reasons could not be farther away from the other's: She was about to get kissed by this stranger that was now her husband. He was about to kiss the woman of his dreams that was now his wife.

Christine felt her world falling apart; the ghastly words ringing in her ears and cutting her wings, letting her fall back to the terrifying fact that it was real. All that separated her from an eternity doomed to the submission to a stranger's will was the touch of their lips.

Yet she did nothing to stop what was coming next: this was her wedding and she had accepted this in front of God. This was her duty. But oh, that didn't stopd her from loathing it all; that something as beautiful and intimate as a kiss had had to become mere currency. It felt sinful. It surely had to be a sin to swear eternal love and loyalty in the house of God while her heart held nothing but fright.

But as her eyes focused once again in the wooden cross in the far wall behind the priest, she realized that if she had to endure hell on earth at the side of this man, she would do it. She would do it all for her Mamma.

She turned to face him, her body rigid with a reject that her mind had stopped fighting. And there he was, already looking at her as if he wanted to burn holes through her. Christine wondered if he had ever stopped looking at her at all.

Then she noticed his mask. She knew it was there, of course, but only in this moment did she really observe it: a white porcelain mask that covered his whole face, from chin to forehead, getting lost under the hat; with the factions of a real face molded. It had a strong, manly jaw, high cheekbones and thin lips; a crooked nose and a neutral expression; everything highlighted with opaque grey paint. It had the necessary holes for the nose, mouth and eyes to fulfill their function, though extremely limited. It was an expressionless but perfect mask.

She quickly wondered how the face underneath must look. If the factions of the mask were any indications, the man was probably handsome, though the mask itself seemed a little loose on the edges. Christine eliminated the thought as his deadly thin, gloved fingers started to slowly lift her veil, overcame with the sensation that, however his real face may look, she didn't want to know now nor ever.

She looked at him one last time with a facade of indifference, before closing her eyes, preparing herself for a contact that did not come.

Instead, Christine felt the cold and hard touch of false lips against her forehead. It was such a light and brief sensation, that she nearly believed it had been a product of her own imagination, but the sight of him gently caressing the lips of his mask -almost as if he could feel it with his real lips- with his gloved fingertips told her all she needed to know and beyond.

The image filled her with endless pity and compassion, and, suddenly, she found herself in peace. In that brief second in which he gently worshipped the unfeeling piece of porcelain, the terror seemed to crack enough to finally let her breath again.

"Is it done already?" Came the abrupt interruption of the priest, shattering the spell between them, for in an instant Erik had taken his hand away from his mask and Christine had moved her eyes in other direction, as if they had been caught doing the most improper of things.

"Yes, it is," answered Erik, clearing his throat as his hand flew to his cravat and busied itself in fixing it, "Thank you."

It was only after Erik's reply that she dared to truly see the priest. Any feature that she might have noticed was forgotten when she saw the man's eyes: white and blue like no other, opaqued and fixed in a point lost to her.

The man was blind. She felt a sudden shiver running up her spine once again, at the realization that Erik had chosen a small church lost in the middle of nowhere because the priest was blind. He would not be able to see the bride's silent scream written all over her face, nor the strange sight that the tall, anonymous figure who claimed to be the groom presented.

Whatever remaining peace was left in her from the strange moment of intimacy shared with her husband disappeared from her mind.

The next thing she knew, she was signing her name in some documents. Her fluid and practiced calligraphy above the label "wife" contrasted greatly with his careless and nearly childish letters above the label "husband", as his right hand tightly and awkwardly gripped the quill.

She was no longer Christine Daaé, but she was no one else either: her husband did not have a last name. All the spaces were filled with the simple name "Erik" and nothing else. She had lost her maiden name, and had gotten nothing in return. The feeling of emptiness only seemed to increase inside of her.

A few more formalities later, and they were husband and wife in law's eyes as much as in God's; then they made their way back to the carriage, which patiently waited for them in the same spot they had left it, now submerged in the deep darkness of the night.

Erik, as the gentleman he wanted to be, opened the door for her, but did not offer his hand again. She looked at him, ready for another thankful smile, but instead found his eyes, and a wave of regret for ever wanting to see them came to her.

The eyes, if that was what they were, shone in the dark of the night at the other side of the mask like a cat's, in a supernatural golden glow. It was like flames burning in the night. Like the flames of hell.

She quickly entered the carriage. Erik followed right after, and lightly hit the roof with his cane. The carriage started moving.

And the previous actions repeated: she looked through the window, not really seeing anything, and he observed her every breath.

"Are you cold?" He asked suddenly, "you are shivering."

Christine looked back at him with a puzzled expression. If she had shivered, which she was not sure about, it surely had nothing to do with the temperature. She nodded her head either way.

"Oh," he said. He looked at her a little more, almost hesitant, and then he took his cloak off. He offered it to her, extending it towards the woman in front of him, "Take it. You could get ill."

"Thank you," she said, taking the cloth he offered. As soon as the cloak rested over her shoulder, the disgusting odor of death filled her nostrils, and she had to fight back the instinct of shaking the cloth off in pure repulsion. Instead, she forced a smile.

The carriage stopped in Rue Scribe and Erik got down without a word. He got her bags down, paid the driver, and made a signal to Christine to follow him. They were standing in front of an empty alley, when Erik spoke:

"Christine," He called, abruptly stopping, "I need you to close your eyes."

"Whatever for?" She asked, looking up at him in confusion.

"Please, Christine," he pleaded, and Christine imagined that he looked directly into her eyes through his mask, "You must. Just give me your hand and I shall guide you."

And Christine didn't want to do it. Her every fibers of her being hated the idea; screamed with reject. But she did it any way. She let her hand get clasped in his, firm and yet gentle and yet terrible.

She advanced hesitantly, carefully putting one foot in front of the other, slowly and insecurely.

And then he started singing. It was the purest of sounds, strong and fluid, reaching and caressing her soul, filling her with the deepest of ecstasies and blinding her mind from every thought. And the ground under her stopped existing. The air of the night stopped chilling her to the bone. His disgusting dead hand stopped touching her.

Nothing else existed. Only his voice. The Voice.

"You can open your eyes now, Christine," The Voice called, stopping his song and just then did Christine remember that Erik and all the rest of the world existed. She felt as if, with his abrupt interruption of the song, he had ripped her heart right out of her chest, and she had needed all her willpower to not let a growl of discomfort out.

When her eyes opened, with her mind now clearing the fog of his voice, she took in her surroundings: she was no longer on the street nor the alley, but she couldn't quite place where exactly she was now with the dense darkness surrounding her. Before she could even form a coherent thought, the man's arm surrounded her waist with a feathery touch that consisted of merely his fingers against the fabric of her dress -and, under the innumerable layers of clothing, she could not even feel them there at all-, tense and ready to act in her assistance had she needed it, as he murmured something incomprehensible to her.

They were descending some invisible stairs, devoured by the shadows. They were leaving the land above to descend to the land below, where no humane creature habited. An unpleasant shiver ran down her back.

She walked blindly, being almost dragged as her body fought lightly to his firm pull, for what felt like eternities, until the sound of water drops falling hit her ears. Much to her relief, Erik let go of her waist, before a sudden flame shone in the darkness, and its intensity was such a contrasting effect against the pure black that she had to squint her eyes until they adapted.

"You must be always careful here," he said, patting the wall in front of him as if he searched for something, "there are countless dangers in the dark, and the Siren is not merciful with intruders. No, she is not; not merciful at all."

Christine turned to look at him, and felt her heart stopping in her chest: among the darkness, the white face seemed to be floating in the nothingness, with the body supporting it completely hidden in the dark.

"But fear not, my dear. As long as Erik is with you, nothing in his kingdom shall ever do you harm."

Christine did not dare to speak.

Erik seemed to open a passage in an apparent plain wall. At his hesitation, Christine moved forward to enter, but a pair of languid arms soon caught her without warning. He swept her off her feet effortlessly and she had to suppress a scream once again at the scare for the unsuspected action. She clung to his neck; her fingernails digging in his cold skin among prominent bones, and brought her own body closer to him as to not fall, feeling his hand under her knees and on the upper part of her back.

Erik walked inside with Christine in his arms, only a few steps, and then let her down again. It was even darker inside this room, but the humidity and chill were less than outside, until Erik, with the flick of a switch, lit up three different lamps and illuminated the room. The only thing she could make from everything were flowers. She looked around with amazement, where hundreds and hundreds of colorful flowers filled the room from bottom to top; over furniture and below the carpets.

"This is for you," Erik said suddenly, standing a few feet behind her. "And this is our home. Know that everything here is as yours as it is mine. Would you like to see the rest?"

Christine, starting to feel lightheaded for the whole journey, only nodded her head. She knew the influence of the Voice -no, Erik's voice's influence over her-, but never before, at least not that she recalled, had she lost herself so deeply into the sound, to the point where she could not even feel where she began or ended. They had also travelled in the deep darkness, underground, where no one lived. Except them. They would live there, in that underworld of never-ending night. This rotten world of solitude and darkness was hers.

"Follow me," Erik commanded, taking an oil lamp to guide their path. Christine obeyed.

She was unpleasantly surprised to see that his home -their home- was so... common. It had a drawing room with a chimney and couches; rugs and wallpaper and bathrooms and a kitchen; elegant and nearly simple. Everything was so ordinary, that it felt strange and unnerving.

And Christine found herself oddly troubled by this. Erik, with his perfectly calculated and graceful moves and airs of mystery, could not live in such a vulgar place. His presence was simply... wrong, somehow.

She had, perhaps, somehow expected something else. A gloom palace where shadows seemed to prey in every corner; that its walls could speak and whisper behind your back; perhaps even a cavern full of candles and music and nothing else. Something, anything. Anything that matched or explained how someone could speak through mirrors and live underground, and have hands of death and the voice of the heavens.

An Angel could not live in such a humane and humble place.

Christine felt heat rising to her cheeks at such foolish thoughts because she realized what she was doing: she was trying to see him as everything but a man. Because, as she had to remind herself for perhaps the fourth or fifth time that same night, that was what he was: a man. A simple man.

Oh, but it was easier to say it than believe it!

"Would you like to see my room?" Asked Erik, unexpectedly turning around to face her, and once again the sound of his voice brought her down to reality.

It had been such a compromising question, and yet, for a brief moment, she had thought it held no hidden meaning. His tone had been so innocent that he might as well had asked her if she preferred daisies or roses.

But the imposing presence of a wedding ring on her finger made her think otherwise, making her stomach turn once again. Yet she knew she could not deny it, whatever his real meaning had been. It was her duty as a wife to let him enjoy his right as a husband, even if the mere thought of his disgusting hands touching her like no other man had ever touched her before made her want to throw up.

She just nodded her head, with her mouth too dry to even try to answer. Something in the way he moved to open the door for her told her that he was pleased with her answer. And that only made her blood run colder.

Erik opened the door only to face pure darkness. He stepped in first, carrying in front of him the oil lamp.

"Come, Christine," Erik said, turning back to her. The dim shine of the lamp highlighted the features of the mask, deepening the shadows and making an even less appealing image, "It is alright."

As Christine stepped in, her past unconscious expectation for mysteriousness and adventure came back to slap her in the face. The room, with its black walls and scattered music sheets across the floor with letters and signs in bloody red, seemed a picture taken out from a horror story.

However, the real fright came at the sight of a coffin; imposing and intimidating in the middle of the room, with its lid open as arms waiting for her to embrace it.

"That is my bed," explained Erik calmly.

And whatever other explanation that came after that was lost to Christine's ears. She would not- she could _not_ sleep in a coffin. Not on her first night as a wife; not for the rest of her life. If the idea of letting this faceless man with hands of death steal her from her purity was already disturbing, the image of it happening in that macabre chamber nearly made her faint of fright.

Then the most horrid of thoughts crossed her mind: perhaps death itself would be preferable. And the quick image of the pair of scissors from the kitchen flashed behind her eyes.

Then she thought of her Mamma, and how devasted she would be. Her sacrifice would have been useless if she died at that moment, without having given her Mamma the money for her treatment. If she died, she realized, she would be taking her own life and her Mamma's life with her.

And she could not allow that to happen.

"Come," Erik continued, his tone now a little tense and uncomfortable. Christine noticed she was staring directly at the coffin, without saying a word. She quickly took her eyes off the macabre object and dismissed any of the grotesque thoughts from a moment before.

They entered a room across the hall; the only one with a white door. Unlike others, this one had a wallpaper in pastel colors, and its elegant furniture painted white. The open doors of the closet revealed a hundred dresses and skirts, all fancy and graceful and stunning. Perfumes and lotions and make-up and more filled the dressing table, and above it hung a great mirror. Christine noticed, too, that it was the only room in the house with one. It was a simple but nice Louis-Phillipe room.

"This is your room," Erik told, and Christine turned to see that he was standing just at the door, almost as if he feared his mere presence in the room would profane the place, "This is your space. Erik shall not disturb you here. Your washroom is behind that door if you wish to see it now."

"Are we not going to share a room tonight?" The house filled with silence for an eternal second, and Christine needed the moment to realize the question -that was more a manifestation of her fears than a question itself- had come from her own mouth.

His whole frame seemed to stiff at the sound of her words, obviously thrown back at her question, and her own body unconsciously mirrored his, just as astonished for her words as Erik was. Christine bit her tongue for the thoughtless question, silently cursing herself while waiting for an answer that in reality, she did not wish to hear.

"Do you..." Erik absently toyed with his gloves, looking like an ashamed little boy who had just been caught eating dessert before dinner more than a husband speaking to his new wife, "Do you wish to share a room... with Erik?"

The real meaning of the question was once again unknown to Christine. Yet, she was genuine -but pleasantly- surprised by it, as she had not expected him to ask her what she wanted at all. She had assumed that it was simply something that was going to happen, regardless of her wishes.

"I... I just believed that since this is our wedding night you would... would want to..." she murmured, her eyes desperately moving from one spot on the floor to another. She silently prayed that he understood her answer without the need for the embarrassing explanation. A lady was not supposed to discuss such topics!

"That is not what I asked, Christine," Erik replied, his tone flat and strange.

'No'. That was what she wanted to say: no. No, and a thousand times no. It didn't matter how innocent his actions were, or how much he seemed to want to respect her privacy: she was still not ready -and perhaps never would- to give him something as intimate as that.

But she didn't want to tell him that. Not that way, at least. She bit her lip in frustration, not knowing how to answer. She knew a wife was not supposed to answer that question honestly. A wife should merely lay in bed and let her husband-... oh, god, would it be a sin to deny him? To push him away and lock herself alone for the whole night? It would not be a permanent solution, and she knew she could not hide each night for the rest of her life, but she could at least... scape for a while longer.

"You are afraid," he stated, and she did not deny it, "you are afraid of Erik."

"No!" she contradicted him this time, allowing not a single second to pass. She made a hesitant pause, and then added in a small voice: "I am... not afraid of you."

And Christine almost believed it. She thought, up until that moment, that she did not fear him completely. She might be absolutely repelled by the idea of his closeness, but she did not fear him.

But the quiver in her voice seemed to disagree with her, and Erik saw it.

"It is alright. Erik... Erik had foolishly hoped to spend the night by his bride's side, but he now sees that you fear him." Christine made an attempt to say something, but Erik raised his hand indicating her to stop, "It is alright. I will wait, Christine," he said, and made a pause, considering how to proceed, "But you need to know that I love you, Christine, with every part of my being, and the heavens themselves are witnesses of the truth in my words. And all Erik wants is for you to love him back, and for that he shall wait. In the meanwhile, you have in me the most loyal and respectful of friends. Good night, my dear."

And then Erik was gone; disappearing into the darkness and silence of the house, leaving her alone on her first night as a wife.

-0-

Author's Note: Comments and reviews are lovely, eh!


	3. Chapter 3

Part III: Christine

Christine awoke in a strange room, illuminated so dimly by a dying gas lamp that she could see nothing but shades. Yet, she was not afraid. She could not be; not when the bed under her involved her so warmly and perfectly, with the fluffy pillows so comfortable that she thought she could lost herself in its softness.

She turned a few times in the bed, feeling the foreign material of the new sleeping gown and the silk of the sheets. Then she remembered where she was: she was in her room, in her house.

In her husband's house.

The thought dissipated any last trace of sleep remaining in Christine, and while her fists closed tightly in a silent cry, she was instently flooded with the need to hate everything around her: the room, the sheets, the pillows, the corners and the rugs; but she could not. She had just had the best sleep that she had got in a week.

Christine got up from the bed without any enthusiasm, dragged rather than guided by her angered stomach, and wrapped her night robe tightly around herself, trying to cover as much as she could with it before leaving the room with a lamp on her hand, finding no strength nor desire to properly dress for the day. The door to exit her room was hidden, mingling with the wall so perfectly that it was almost imperceptible, and it took her a few moments to find it. She was grateful that she had seen Erik close the entrance the night before; otherwise, she would have believed that there was no way to leave the room.

She moved through the hallways in full alert, waiting for his almost demonic presence to appear out of nowhere in some dark room. However, Erik seemed to be nowhere in the house.

Christine got to the dining room still in guard, but instead of finding him, behind its closed doors the most marvelous smell welcomed her, making her stomach growl once again in protest for lack of food, and only then did she remember that she had not eaten the night before. He had not offered her anything, and her mind had been too troubled to remember such an unimportant activity existed.

She walked to the table, where a covered plait and a note waited patiently for her. She sat and lifted the silver lid, her mouth watering at the enchanting smell of warm buttery bread, the exquisite sight of freshly cut fruit, and the still-humming cup of tea and omelette. Christine lost no time before grabbing the silver fork and taking a bite of the creamy omelette, silently thanking Erik for thinking of her. He seemed to think of everything.

While she eat, she wondered how her Mamma had spent the night: had her pain allowed a good rest? Had she taken all her medicines and remedies, or had she refused them once again in one of her tantrums? Was she overcame with sadness knowing that she had not been able to attend Christine's wedding as she had wished or had the medicines worked their magic and drifted her to a peaceful state of mind? Oh, that had been the hardest part: make her understand that she could not go, that her frail health tied her to the bed and that Christine felt better knowing her Mamma took care of herself instead of assisting to the infernal union. Of course, she had not said that last part. Christine had only said good things of the Voice back when it was nothing more than that, and after it -he- became her fiancé, she continued to do so -slipping a few white lies here and there- to assure Mme. Valérius that everything was great, even if in reality it wasn't.

Christine sighed, and absently took and read the note that Erik had left her, even if just to clear her mind. It was written in that terrible red ink and those dreadful, nearly illegible scribbles:

"My dear,

I need to go out for a while. Eat your breakfast and do not worry about your Erik; he shall come home before sundown."

Before sundown. Tonight. He would be home tonight.

Christine remembered Erik's words from the night before as her hand unconsciously closed in a fist over the note; he had assured her that he wanted nothing but her love, and that he would wait for it. She should have expected it, and she knew it: what other reason would a man have to marry a girl who had nothing to offer if not that, after all? The only reasons a man married for his own will, according to what Christine had always overheard from the rest of the chorus girls, were either money, status, beauty, or love.

She had none of the first two, and she did not consider the third to be a cause strong enough in her case -if it had been, he would have gotten what he wanted the night of their wedding, but he did not. He respected her wishes and told her he was her friend.

So it had to be the fourth, then.

She looked down to her almost empty plate, moving around with the fork a single grape. She didn't know what to think or make about it, with her feelings being so near the opposite to his. She couldn't help it: the man was strange and mysterious, and she knew nothing of him at all. Hell, just a week before she had seriously considered asking him if he was an angel! She could not be expected to suddenly see him as a _man_ , with all that the label carried, when so little ago she had thought him an unhuman, spiritual being.

With a little shake of her head, she erased the thought, not wanting to overthink the matter too much. She decided instead to explore the house; this time actually paying attention to her surroundings, now that the consuming fears from the night before had been dismissed and his intimidating presence was gone.

She wandered through the hallways with her fingers tracing the walls and her bare feet dragging on the floors, wanting to get familiarized with the place now that it was, in Erik's words, "as much hers as it was his". She found once again that the house was pretty normal, illuminated mainly through electric light, though some rooms had gas lamps and candles too. With the exception of the strong smell of moist dirt, the chill air, and the lack of mirrors and windows, everything seemed ordinary. Christine had to remind herself that she was, in fact, underground; but it was not until around an hour later, when the murmur of music flooded the house, that she had to ask herself what was _above_ her head. Unable to know by herself, and absolutely sure that wandering around the endless underground cavers was not worth it, she decided that asking Erik later would be the only option. It had merely been a night, and she already missed the light of day.

Trying to illuminate and warm the room a little, she lit the fireplace on the drawing room, and gazed briefly to the thousand baskets of cheap flowers that flooded the room. She tried all the couches, laying and sitting and stretching to her liking. They all felt almost new, with the exception of the one armchair closer to the fire. Christine realized, with a bit of sadness, that perhaps he didn't get too many visitors often, regardless of what the dining table may suggest by its size.

She opened all the cabinets on the kitchen, and found nothing but dust and a few spider webs in the majority of them. She ran her fingers over the wood, and made a mental note to reprimand Erik later for the state of his kitchen: One could not have his or her food in such a dirty space. And she was surprised to see it in that state, if she was honest; all the rest of the house was completely spotless. She decided to clean the cabinets by herself.

After finishing, she continued her adventure. Her bathroom was impressive, with running water that changed from cold to warm at her will. She got into the dry bathtub fully clothed, and saw the variety of cleaning products there: oils and soaps and shampoos of all kinds, many of which were made of herbs that she had never even heard about in her life. She found three bottles, two more than the others, of the same rose oil, and she thought that maybe that was his preferred smell. She would then be careful not to use it too often.

In her room, everything was perfect, and for that she didn't need to give it a close inspection: to her humble mind, the room seemed made for a queen. In her dressing table she found bottles similar to the ones in the bathroom, now containing her favorite perfumes and lotions. She had a box full of ribbons and jewels and anything she could want. She traced her fingers over the table, admiring the delicacy of the design. From her closet, of a similar tone and decorations, she got all the clothes out, observing the dresses that had been already there waiting for her arrival. Some of them were beautiful, others a bit too extravagant for her modest taste.

She returned all the dresses back in their place, and added the ones she had brought on her bag last night. They contrasted, for her previous clothes were simple in comparison with the fine materials of the new ones. Erik had only given her the best of the best, and she wondered if he had truly been able to construct this whole little palace for her in merely seven days.

She moved to another room, avoiding completely his. If he was to respect her privacy, she might as well respect his; besides, she was sure there was nothing inside that infernal room that she wanted to see ever again. Christine entered the last unexplored room: the music room. There, a piano received her, and she found almost funny how the piano was in the music room while the huge organ was in his bedroom. There was also a harp and a violin case in one corner, practically forgotten. Above the tiles of the piano many music sheets were carelessly discarded.

Christine took one curiously. It was full of unintelligible marks, scratches over musical notes and others replacing those ones above them. He was a composer, then; and a pretty unorganized one, she concluded. She returned the music sheet, finding it impossible to make out Erik's scribbles -his normal handwriting was already hard enough to decipher to begin with.

When she put the music sheet back, however, a little bundle under the sheets caught her attention: it was a little leather bag. She looked at it, rolling it on her hand, but finding nothing written or drawn that could give her a clue of what was inside, she opened it. Two keys hid inside, one of bronze and the other of metal. She studied the keys, but once again she found nothing remarkable. She dismissed the importance of the keys, assuming they must be for the locks of the house or the gates.

She looked over the shelves covering the left wall, filled with books from top to bottom just like in the drawing room. Christine noticed that many of the books were in languages that she did not understand, and she wondered if he had really read them all. Unlike with his music, his books were neatly organized by language and alphabetical order, and she had no trouble finding ones written in French.

She took one at random and opened it, just to see a glimpse of what kind of literature did her husband enjoyed -her father always told her that one could know a lot of a person from his or her taste in music and books-, and she was surprised to see, by the first few paragraphs that she read, that it was a romance novel.

Marveling at the sweetness of the tragic lines spoken by the lovers in the book, she smiled softly at the image of Erik, with all his menacing and imposing presence, tearing up a little at the tragedy of the protagonists. He had a soft side, then.

The girl closed the book and returned it to its place, taking another one. This one was about architecture, and she quickly got bored. She saw the bookmark almost at the end, and she wondered how had he been able to put up with such a dull and extensive lecture, and if he, perhaps, was an architect himself.

She took one more book, and opened it at a page near the middle without looking. She read in silence a few lines before quickly closing it and returning it to a random place in the bookshelf, feeling her ears and cheeks burning hot from embarrassment. Erik certainly had a... _wide_ taste in literature. She decided that it was more than enough discovery for a day.

Christine got out of the room, her face still shining red, and stayed in the hallway while her heart stopped beating so fast. She had already seen almost everything the house had, with the exception of his room and whatever laid beyond it -she had seen two closed doors in the brief time she had entered it, just like the ones in her room-, and now found herself bored.

Christine was just about to head off to her room, when a sudden voice called from behind:

"Christine, it is far too late in the evening to be wearing such clothes."

The girl gasped loudly in surprise, turning around in a quick reflex. Erik stood in the entrance, carrying endless boxes and bags in his arms. If he had not scared her the way he had, she would have probably laughed at the absurdity of the image.

"Forgive me, Christine, I did not mean to scare you," said Erik walking in her direction, while his voice relaxed slightly trying to not sound too harsh, "but it is indecent of you to be in such state at this hour."

"I saw no need for a change of clothes, since I cannot know the time," answered Christine, annoyed with his unexpected appearance: the man moved like a shadow, and not even the ground under his feet betrayed his intentions. "Besides, am I not allowed to be comfortable in my own house?"

Her hands moved instinctively to wrap herself more tightly in the robe, just now truly missing her usual infinite layers.

"Of course, of course," he replied so quickly he almost stumbled over his own words, and continued to walk past her. She followed him to the kitchen, "you are free to do as you please inside these walls. And about the issue with the lack of clocks-"

He left the bags on the kitchen table, and gracefully moved a hand towards his breast pocket. He took something out and showed it to her, holding it with extreme delicacy: From a thin golden chain, a little heart with silver designs hung, about the size of a coin, shining in the soft light of the candles.

She extended her hand and touched the little silver roses that crowned the front and back of the heart, barely passing her fingers over them, as if it were the finest of jewels and her mere touch could break it. There was a small, imperceptible button at the side, and, filled with amazement, she clicked it: it opened right through the middle, cutting the heart in two perfect halves. Inside the heart, however, stood a little clock, with its black watch hands adorned with small details in silver.

With Erik still holdig it out for her, Christine closed the clock once again, and saw that a perfect "C" grazed the middle of the closed golden lid.

The whole clock and design was almost too small for her to see, since her vision had never been the best; but she found the little thing precious nonetheless.

"May I help you putting it on?" He asked her, with his calm and soothing tone allowing only a "yes" for an answer.

He moved behind her, and the instant he was out of her view she felt uneasy. He did not touch her exposed neck, much to her relief.

"Erik does not like clocks. They are useless tools here, where night and day mingle and fuse as one; only here to remind him of his eternal curse of solitude," he said, and Christine felt as if he had just whispered an ancient secret in her ear, even though he stood at a polite distance, "but on you, my dear, they are the most sacred and perfect of artifacts." She felt the proper amount of space between the two abruptly not being enough; with his intoxicating voice coming and invading her, coming unwelcome and tingling in her ear, and she quickly took a step away from him.

"Thank you, it is lovely," she babbled, as her left hand unconsciously moved to hold the little heart. The serenity in the man's stand broke into one of ecstasy.

"And there are more, and more gifts for Christine! All for her! I brought her dresses and hats and jewels and perfumes and more!" Erik answered, his happiness overpassing hers by far.

But before she could say or do something, Erik's posture tensed, almost imperceptibly, but it briefly alarmed her that she might have done something to upset him, though she could not recall doing anything wrong. She had even smiled a little.

"You are not wearing your wedding ring." His voice answered her question before she even had time to formulate it, but his tone had lost all trace of the loving adoration it had held just a moment before. "You must always wear your ring. You are married now."

Her hand moved, with her eyes examining her finger just to find it empty. She had not even thought about the little golden band until that moment, and became suddenly too aware of the almost menacing presence of his own ring in his finger, shining proudly in the candlelight. He wore it outside the black leather glove; wordlessly bragging it even in their solitude.

"Ah," she murmured, "forgive me, I did not notice it. Excuse me, please."

Before she could take a single step, he asked, his voice quick and filled with alarm: "where are you going?"

"I must take a bath and retrieve my ring," she explained patiently, ignoring the annoyance at the need to give an explanation. Erik's presence had become too much for her too quickly, with his unstable mood swings in such a short time nearly giving her a headache.

He answered something about dinner, but Christine was already making her way out of the kitchen. Once behind the locked door of her bathroom, out of her husband's voracious sight, she left out a deep breath. His mere presence unnerved her more than she could understand.

Nevertheless, Christine guessed she was lucky enough. Her husband seemed to be... considerate over her. He was strange, mysterious in an unpleasant way, his movements seemed extremely calculated -like a machine fulfilling its purpose and nothing more-, and his only trace of emotion was in his voice, but he also seemed more or less harmless, which was more than what could be said of many of other girls' husbands.

As she took her clothes off and submerged on the bathtub, she reflected about her situation: she was married officially, and they were husband and wife in nearly every sense. She was going to spend the rest of her life with that mysterious man, and even if the idea still unnerved her, it was a reality that could not be changed, and the sooner she made the fact stick in her head the better.

Reclining her head against the border of the bathtub and closing her eyes, suddenly tired, she forced herself to think harder: what did she know about her husband that could be redeemable? He had a good voice. An excellent voice. A heavenly voice. A voice that heaven and all the angels themselves could envy! A voice that emptied her head of any sane thought and made her own voice stop being hers; that left her body defenseless and vulnerable-

He played different instruments. She heard him play the violin once, when he was only her dear Voice, and it played the instrument perfectly, even better than her Papa; and now she knew he played the piano, and the harp, and the organ too, with that imposing beast standing as a guardian dog in his room, ready to bite her arm off if she dared to come near-

He liked reading. She did not want to think about what exactly did he truly enjoy, but he liked reading. And knew multiple languages, too. With some luck, maybe he knew some basic Swedish too.

And more importantly, he was an honest man that had kept her purity intact. Because the truth was, as much as she loathed to admit it, that if she had not found Erik and he had not taken her to the altar, she would have ended up needing to look for a patron, or become a mistress. She would have had to smile and dine and be a slave to some strange man's desires, who could take her beauty and youth and then leave her on the streets as soon as he got bored. She would have never married in white, if she even married at all. It was a horrid destiny, but it could have been hers.

Erik, however, had given her all a patron could and still allowed her to continue being an honest woman, and for that she would be forever grateful.

However, to her own astonishment, she found out, while massaging the muscles of her temples that what she liked the most -or that at least came closer to "liking"-, was that Erik did not show his face. And it was not in a wicked or morbid fascination that she admired his anonymity: it was simply that, as long as the man did not show a face, he was still a Voice. She felt somehow protected, shielded from the reality that they were in fact true husband and wife; a man and a woman living under the same roof and sharing their lives, and not merely children who just met in the park playing make-pretend. As long as he wore a mask, she would never feel his lips against her skin; would never see true or lie in his eyes; would never see a tear or a smile. As long as she did not see it, he was still her Angel of Music.

It was a strange comfort that nonetheless still bothered her. A part of her wished to rip the mask off and reproach him for hiding, and another part of her wanted to stay away from the piece of porcelain as much as she could. The white material seemed to irradiate a tangible energy of warning; begging for attention as much as forbidding it.

She sighed, exhausted, her want to keep thinking better of him over. In reality, she knew, all she wanted was sleep and wake up in her own bed, in Mamma Valérius' house, with her finger free of the golden chain and her childish dreams of love still intact.

Oh, she was truly so selfish. Her Mamma was so sick and Christine couldn't stop pitying herself, as if she were the one condemned to a bed and endless coughing. She turned in the water, once again reminding herself that she was there for her, for her Mamma, but not even repeating it like a mantra seemed to be enough.

What an awful person she was.

-0-

Author's Note: I must admit, people, that as much as I'm putting every little piece of my soul in this to keep it as Leroux-accurate as my less-than-reliable memory allows me, I feel like I took a lot of liberties with Erik's house. I know he doesn't have a music room, and the kitchen is never mentioned. The details of the Louise-Phillipe Room aren't 100% true either, but hey, I tried!:)

I know there is not a lot of progress in this chapter, but I wanted to give poor little Christine some time alone to reflect over her situation and all, and also give you all a closer look into her head before what's next to come, because, hey, it's all horrible and painful and depressing –for the wife. What does our poor little groom has to say about it, uh? Wait for the next chapter to find out;)  
Reviews, favs, and follows are my reason to live! Thank you all SO much for all the lovely reviews! You all inspire me to keep writing! 


	4. Chapter 4

Part IV: Erik

While Christine took her time playing with the bubbles of her bath, Erik put hands at work. He had a whole dinner planned; with an appetizer, a main dish and dessert, just as she deserved. He had wanted to give her a fantastic meal the night before, as a small replacement for the proper celebration he could not give her, but in his almost too overwhelming excitement for their union, he had forgotten to buy anything.

His whole evening had been ruined, in fact, and he did not know whether it was his fault or not. He had thought of bringing her to their home, show her around; he thought she would love the normalcy of his house, but something in the way she observed every corner of the place made him doubt it. Then he would take her out for a walk, and he would amuse her with his illusions and magic tricks, and she would show him that beautiful smile of hers that he had foolishly neglected for the whole, eternal week it took before they could finally be wed. He would then bring her home once more, and he would give her to drink some of the sweetest wines he had and celebrate together the fortune of their union doing what their souls craved more than anything in the world: make music together.

The wedding night itself, however, was a topic that had haunted his tortured mind for the whole week, and after thinking about it for those seven days, his only conclusion had been that he had strongly contradicting feelings. A part of him, the reasonable part of him, loathed the thought of making his poor angel go through that with him, knowing that he would bring her pain -even if just momentarily- and the horrid vision of his unpleasant body and touch upon her. A monster like him did not deserve such pleasures. Another part of him, the animalistic and hopeful part, craved her touch like a madman: he wanted to feel her as any other man had the right to feel his wife; his own wild desires having been for too long neglected. He _needed_ to feel the tender touch of her skin against his own. He also thought that consummating their marriage was the right thing to do. It was the normal and correct way to start a marriage, and normalcy was everything he had ever dreamt of having.

And he had even dared to hope, like a foolish teen boy, that perhaps she would gladly embrace him -she had _agreed_ to be his living wife, after all! She had agreed and he had not even needed to beg!- and his advances, letting his body and soul drink from her as his husbandly right allowed and demanded him to do. He had pushed every thought concerning the matter aside, however, as his week had been filled with endless work to do and his heart was too soft at times to even think of a simple brush of her fingers without it making his breath stuck in his chest and an embarrassing red color creep to his sullen cheeks.

He knew that none of those things would happen that night, however, when he saw her hands nervously twisting the fabric of her dress, her eyes frantically wandering and her voice trembling in fear. He hated the sight of her fright, and went to bed alone and earlier than he had planned so that he could forget that it was him who caused it in the first place. He told himself it was not really him what caused it, however: it was simply the nervousness and tiredness of the day's events. His innocent, pure, untouched Christine would have been equally terrified if he had been the most handsome man in the world, and he was being a good husband to his good wife; gentle as a lamb now that he was to have the love of a woman. Yes, he was a good husband.

It only pained and angered him that even something as normal as a wedding and a wedding night had to be different for him. He wanted a normal wedding with normal guests. He wanted a big chapel with astonishing decorations and a priest who could see the happiness in the newlyweds' eyes. He wanted an excited wife with rosy cheeks. He wanted to spend his wedding night with his wife in his arms and his wife wanting it back. It angered him that he had nothing the way it should be. Always crumbs, never the whole bread. Not even a whole bite.

Still, he had to admit that he was slightly glad that they did not have the chance for any of his plans: he had spent the whole week in a sort of daydream -he had a _fiancée_! A woman _willing_ to marry _him_! To spend the rest of _her_ life with _him_! And not just _any_ woman: it was _Christine_! His beautiful, kind, innocent Christine, _the love of his life_! He almost fainted when he first realized that -, planning and thinking, preparing everything for her arrival and their wedding, so the day it finally became a reality, he was a trembling mess, excited and eager and nervous and probably bordering a heart attack all at the same time.

And when the moment finally came for him to go for his fiancée, Erik had vowed to make everything perfect. Yes, he would appear confident and calm; relaxed, even. He had remained silent during their whole trip, fearing he would say something that would make her change her mind -oh, how his heart had stopped when she had jerked her hand away from his in fear! He had almost been able to hear the _clink_ of the ring against the pavement and the horse moving the carriage away, taking her and his only chance of happiness away from him forever-, and was almost overwhelmed by the mere idea of thinking it was really happening. And _oh_ , the image of Christine Daae, dressed all in white with flowers in her hands and the wedding march sounding in the background, while walking towards _him…_ Oh, that image alone had made his heart beat faster than it had ever done it before!

And then the _kiss._ Oh, he had _kissed her_. His knees had never felt so weak like they did in that moment.

Erik sighed, satisfied enough with the good way things seemed to be going this far, while his hands kept cutting the carrots with the knife in automatic. The sound of water boiling was a distant sound to his keen ears, and the smell of pie was diminished by his lack of a real nose beneath the false one of his newly-made mask. He _loathed_ this new mask, but he had made it with her likings in mind, not his own.

"May I help you with something?" Asked the little voice of his beloved wife; her damped hair falling down her back and her arms hugging her petite, slender body. She looked so lovely wearing one of the dresses he had chosen for her and only her. Her ring was also in her finger, just where it belonged; and Erik had to pass a finger over his own ring to remind himself that _yes_ , they _were_ real, and _yes_ , they _were_ married. Erik had spent a great part of the night just looking at his finger with the ring, convincing himself that it was truly there, and he still needed to touch it again to be sure it was there.

When she passed a hand through her beautiful, long curls, he cursed his lack of nose once again, knowing that it would be a hard task to ever find out if she had used the perfumes and lotions he gave her without her knowledge. In his fantasies, she always smelled like roses.

"I do not need assistance, thank you," he replied, taking a potato and starting to peel it off. He wanted this evening to be perfect for her, not make her work. Yes, this was all for her and only her, and she had no reason to tire her delicate hands today.

"But I insist," Christine replied, walking towards him and positioning herself at his side, a few feet away -though that did not stop his heart from beating faster. "I want to help."

"No." He replied again, his tone flat to end the discussion. She must have understood because she left the kitchen silently. Good.

Erik did not see Christine again until the dinner was ready, warm and neatly served in his finest china on the table of the dining room. A bottle of sweet wine, romantic candles and freshly made bread and butter stood in the middle of the table, right between his plate and hers.

His wife came soundlessly to take a seat, and he quickly moved to fix her chair. He missed the murmured "thank you", and was so immersed in his own infinite pride and excitement that he was completely oblivious to Christine's evident discomfort as his overly-baggy clothes brushed slightly her side while he moved to grab the bottle of wine.

Erik had devoured as many cheesy romance novels as he could possibly get in a week; his clever mind ignoring the blurry details of the story, and instead looking for patterns and behaviors that ladies seemed to like in men, trying to acquire more consistent knowledge in the science of love for the first time -instead of running from it-, and up to this point he believed he had succeeded in everything he had found in his research: he had bought flowers -the books never specified _how many_ were enough, but Erik didn't want "enough", he wanted all and beyond for his precious Angel!-; he had carried her in his arms through the threshold of their house on their wedding night; he had prepared her breakfast -though he could not carry it to her bed as he would have wished to do, since he had _foolishly_ promised her, in a desperate and _completely thoughtless_ attempt to make her trust him, that he would never step inside her bedchamber without her consent. He had denied himself the pleasure of watching her sleep!-, he had bought her many gifts, and fixed her chair for her! He was putting extreme effort, unaccustomed to such considerations to other person's comfort, unaware that his failed attempts at romanticism were, in fact, unnerving his poor wife more than anything.

He opened and smelled the enchanting aroma of the bottle of wine, briefly bringing him memories of his youth: he had been on a wedding, -an "unexpected guest", as he preferred to refer to himself in those occasions- when he had first tried this wine. The married couple had been young, and so had been the wine. It had been good, but not nearly as intoxicating as it was now, having had more time to develop. Yes, a well-rested wine was better than a rushed wine.

He half-filled her glass and closed the bottle once again, not having poured anything on his own, just like his plate was bare and his utensils untouched. He sat down across her and awkwardly rested his intertwined finger over his lap, and watched her murmur a prayer before trying the soup.

"Erik," her sweet voice called, and he swore that his name had never sounded more beautiful, "are you not going to join me?"

The man across her smiled under the mask, even though she could not see it.

"No, my dear, Erik shall not," he answered, deeply touched for her interest. "But please, do not let his lack of appetite affect yours. Eat, my sweet, for this is all for you."

Christine grabbed her spoon once more, and eat in silence as Erik observed her. Oh, she was so beautiful! So delicate, so feminine! Blowing carefully the soup on her spoon as to not harm her pretty mouth, curling her slender fingers around the napkin; her tempting little tongue showing its pink tip between her rosy lips distractedly. It was the most endearing image Erik had ever had the honor to witness, and he knew once again that that was exactly what he had needed all this time: a woman to share his life with. He just loved her so, _so_ much!

"Where exactly are we, Erik?" Christine asked suddenly, and it took a few seconds for Erik to snap out of his daydream.

"Well, in our home, my love!" He chuckled. What a silly girl, and how easy she was able to make such reactions of happiness, so foreign to him before, come to him naturally!

"No," she said, shaking her head slightly and making her pretty blonde curls bounce adorably, "What I meant was, what is above us? Why can I hear music all the time?"

"Oh, that must be the rehearsals for the new production!" He answered, "we are under the Opera House, five cellars below."

"You... You live under the Opera?" She asked, and Erik only smiled more proudly.

"Of course; this is Erik's Opera, after all! Erik knows its every wall and ceiling, and only Erik commands its doors," he answered smugly, and then quickly added, "this is our Opera, and it shall soon learn to obey you, too."

She gave him a small smile and said no more until he served the second plate. Erik failed to notice that this new information, which he had thought would not surprise her in the least, had shocked and troubled her deeply.

"I saw some of your notes for an opera called 'Don Juan Triumphant', which I assume is of your making," she said in a sweet tone, "would you like to play one of your compositions for me?"

His smile widened even more, and his dead cheeks hurt at the foreign gesture, as his yellow eyes brightened in delight. She could see none of this things, of course. It would have been so good for her nerves if she had been able to see a human reaction from the man who claimed to be her husband.

"Ah, yes! Indeed, I shall play for you, my dear, but none of my Don Juan! That music is too terrible for you, and will only make you lose your pretty colors," he said, and for a moment his voice turned gloomy, though he did not mind nor notice. He knew the power of the cursed notes; written by the pain and solitude of a lifetime. "Some music is too terrible, too twisted for you, and I hope you never hear it, my dear."

"I will play for you, instead, my wedding gift, Christine!" He smiled brightly, with the palms of his hands against the table as he resisted the urge to go fetch his violin in that same moment, "our wedding mass!"

The rest of the dinner was spent in silence, but Erik hardly noticed it, almost trembling with excitement at the prospect of her soon hearing their beloved wedding mass. He had poured all his love for her in it, and he was sure she would love it.

Erik had started to work on it nearly two months before he even had reunited the guts to speak to her, believing at the time that it would never truly be heard by his muse, much less actually used. But when his beautiful angel had promised her hand in matrimony to him, while the tears started to dry in her damp cheeks, he had finished the piece that same night, firmly grasping in his fist the golden band that now graced her finger, while he cried and wrote the last notes. That day still seemed like a dream to him, not believing his incredible luck of her accepting his marriage proposal with such a firm conviction. She truly wished to be Erik's wife!

Of course, he would have to ask for a little more of his salary for at least a few months if he wanted to treat his wife as the princess -no, _queen_! She was now a queen!- and pay for her guardian's treatments, but it was worth it. It was all worth it if he could now call himself her husband.

When Christine had finished all her dinner, she thanked him and politely complimented his cooking, and even though he knew that his cooking tended to be either pretty bland or too seasoned because of his own diminished sense of taste, he was moved by Christine's kind words and thanked her back.

"Come, Christine, it is time for you to open your gifts!" He laughed and failed to see the shiver running through her at the sound. He took her to the music room and invited her to sit while he fetched the gifts.

He had already left the boxes and bags in the room and merely brought them to her as he sat on the floor at her feet excitedly, like a child seating near the Christmas tree waiting for the time to open his presents. Christine looked down at him in confusion for a moment and hesitantly opened one gift after the other at his insistence. He observed her every reaction to every piece of jewelry and clothes she opened and even insisted on her to try on the hats and the many earrings and necklaces.

And oh, she was so close and yet so far! If he _only_ inclined his head, _just_ his head, it would rest on her perfect knee. If he _only_ moved his own _a little_ , it would touch her skirts. He was so _tempted_ to simply give up and rest his tired head on her! But no, no, Erik could _not_ do that. He had promised her to be her _friend_ and Erik could not break that promise, not _yet_! Because, of course, the promise would be eventually broken: Erik had no plans to remain her friend for the rest of their lives. No, Erik had asked her to be his _wife_ , not his playmate. And she had agreed! His Christine was a clever young woman, and even if she was incredibly naïve, surely she could not have expected to be merely friends forever. 

But for now, they would remain so. He understood, after all, that her sweet, inexperienced mind would need time to adapt to the idea that she was no longer a maiden, but rather the woman of the house, and that she now had certain responsibilities as such –ones that he had no intentions to bring up, both because he didn't want to overwhelm her, and because he didn't want to overwhelm _himself._ For now, he would let her get accustomed to him; show her how good of a husband he could be so she would actually see him as such.

Though surely it wouldn't bother her if he just caressed the hem of her dress, _right?_ With his eyes still glued to the colorful wrapping that was currently being torn apart by her precious hands, his index and middle fingers mindlessly touched the edge of the cloth that dragged over the floor –oh, just a little! So, _so_ little!- in a silent worship.

A satisfied sigh escaped his lips. It was the absolute bliss.

Meanwhile, Christine reluctantly complied with his every wish; his delight too great to see the lack of said sentiment in her eyes.

After what Christine felt like hours and Erik felt were nothing but seconds, all the gifts had been opened and put aside.

"I got nothing for you, Erik," she said, "I'm sorry. I did not know I had to give a wedding gift."

"And you do not have to!" Erik answered, finally rising from his position, with the biggest grin on his face and a pure laugh of satisfaction blooming in his chest. "I wanted to give you gifts, my love, because I am your husband and I have the right to do it!"

Christine gave him a small smile that couldn't last long regardless of how much she tried. His laugh was the most unsettling sound she had ever heard.

He moved rapidly towards the corner of the room, where a solitary violin rested. He started playing without the need to look at the notes; the music flowing through his instrument as natural as air came out of his lungs, and the house on the lake filled with the most marvelous music. Erik fought against the need to close his eyes and lose himself in the movements of his hand over the instrument and instead observed his little angel close her eyes, leaning back into the couch and letting her shoulders drop as the tension finally left her with each note.

And Erik confirmed again what he had once suspected: if there was one thing in this whole world that could make his soul soar even more than the music itself, it was the reaction of Christine to his music. The simple thought of him, a disgusting monster whose own mother could not look at in the eye, being able to make a person's heart race and slow down with the mere flick of his fingers was overwhelming.

When the piece was over, he absorbed every second that she took to come back from her trance, with her eyes dreamy and her breathing low and calm. His heart stopped when a sleepy smile appeared on her face: her nose wrinkled, an adorable little dimple showed at the side of her mouth, and her perfect teeth were visible. It was the most beautiful smile she had given him since they married, and he realized that it was because this was a real, sincere smile. He almost teared up. He was being a good husband.

"Did you enjoy it, Christine? Did you?" He asked with an almost childish hope. Of course she liked it; he was no fool and he knew exactly what a simple word slipping from his tongue or the movement of his hands against an instrument could do to her. But Erik still needed - _wanted_ to hear it from her own voice. He needed to hear he was pleasing his wife.

"It was extraordinary, Erik," she answered, and when her eyes moved to his, her happiness did not disappear. The knot of emotions in his throat tightened, and he once again found himself thanking everything above his head and under his feet for having had the blessing of just having her under the same roof. "Can we sing together, now?"

"Excellent idea, my dear," he smiled behind his constricting mask, which hardly allowed his jaw to move at all, and was once again relieved for his ventriloquism, "just allow me to change my mask. I shall be back in a second."

He left the room calmly, smoothly, but as soon as the door closed behind him, his pace quickened towards the door of his own room. He did not want to miss a single second of her presence, and much less for his stupid mask. It had proved to be a terrible idea this kind of mask, that while it covered everything that needed to be hidden, it also restricted his seeing, breathing, and talking. Oh, but it had looked so good! Molded perfectly to his liking so it would appear that the visage underneath was a strong, attractive and manly one, and not the pathetic, bony, and repulsive carcass that he had as a face. It hid everything that needed to hide and at the same time showed what he wished would truly be his.

He sighed as he put his black barbed mask on, debating for the briefest of moments if perhaps he should merely wear his mustache and a false nose. He also hated that false nose, worsening his already bad breathing by covering almost completely the hole he called a nose. In the end, he merely opted for the mask, feeling relieved to be able to move his jaw freely and use most of his peripheral vision through the cloth.

God knew Erik had tried his best to look good for his wife, wearing his best clothes, hat, mask, and wig; but when one is born with the body of a corpse, one's options for beauty are pretty restricted.

When he returned to the room where his lady awaited, she had laid down on the sofa and was still enjoying the relaxing state that his music had brought to her. He was almost tempted to allow her to rejoice in the sensation; tempted to simply sit in silence across the room and observe her rest. But he was _burning_ for her voice!

He cleared his throat to catch her attention, and her eyes opened slowly.

"What shall we practice today, my dear wife? We have not had a lesson in more than a week," he said, moving to the piano and sitting down on the bench, "have you been practicing in my absence?"

"Just the aria from Faust we practiced in our last lesson, maestro," Christine replied, easily falling back again to the role of the pupil, while sitting down and fixing her golden curls; perfect regardless of their state.

"Then, let us see how have you been progressing without my guidance," Erik said, pretending to look and order his papers, knowing well he did not need the notes to play, "start your warm-up exercises, then we shall begin."

Erik, giving his back to the piano, crossed one leg over the other and ordered Christine to stay in position. She gracefully stood up and straightened her back, looking at his direction.

Observing her posture, Erik nodded for her to begin. He took extreme delight in the sound of Christine's sweet voice; pure and intoxicating at the same time, and let his eyes close as he heard her voice changing scales; high and low notes slipping from her mouth as naturally and harmoniously as rain falling from the sky.

When he thought she was ready, he turned around and his fingers looked for the tiles instinctually. His hands started playing and his eyes closed without the need for his permission, and Christine's heavenly voice joined him.

He didn't choose anything from Faust.

It was a duet. It was a perfect, harmonious duet of tragic lovers; crying the pain of their hearts through the notes. Strange choice of song for newlyweds, perhaps, but Erik thought it didn't matter: nothing would ever do Christine and him apart, and not even if God himself came down from heaven would Erik ever stay away from his beautiful, perfect living wife.

The words slid from her tongue freely, painlessly, and though Christine had sung it before, it had never been accompanied by the proper sound of an instrument. The melody envolved her voice, and her voice envolved the melody; mixing and complementing the other as two halves of a whole. The powerful and delicate singing of the piano highlighted the angelic beauty of her voice, and his throat burned with the raw desire to blend his own voice with the harmonic duo, to be one with the sound; to let it consume him.

Christine's tender and passionate words extinguished to give way to Erik's strong and tragic lament, and he felt as if he had just liberated a wild animal from its cage, his need for singing driving him mad; the music pouring from his fingers as his only window to breath until now. Music vibrated in his veins with the fervent need for freedom.

The blessed sound of his angel's voice filled once again his ears, and the combination of the three, his music, his voice and hers moving as one in a perfect dance made his skin tingle in blind euphoria and ecstasy; shudders running down his back. His voice did not belong to him then, and neither did hers; it all belonged to Music itself. There was no Christine nor Erik. Just music; as alive as their beating hearts and as passionate as the boiling blood on their veins.

He was lost to the sound. So far gone for anything to matter anymore besides her voice, surrounding him and embracing him as no other sensation could do.

Then he felt Christine's fingers brush his bare face.

-0-

Author's Note: Ahh, this is such a lovely day, perfect to be left with a cliffhanger, don't you think? Haha, I had a lot of fun writing this chapter!

But ah, I must admit, I had a hard time deciding on what to do with Erik here: should he be entitled little brat, or act as if he were a completely undeserving street dog?  
In the book, he believed she MUST love him because he was her Angel of Music, and demanded love. But he also freaked out with the most minimum provocation! But now he's not trying to court her –she's already his wife. So, entitled or undeserving? Conclusion: Both! Both are good. Let's see how it works making him alternate between the two! I'm trying to balance it out a bit –but not too much. Creepy but kinda naïve Erik is the best Erik!

Your reviews, favorite, and follows truly make my day:)!


	5. Chapter 5

Part V: Erik

His eyes snapped open, his fingers froze on their place bringing the marvelous sound of the music to an abrupt and horrid ending. His body reacted on his own, tensing and flinching away like a wounded animal; his hand tightly grabbed her wrist before she could even come back from her own paradise, as the other one flew to his face in a useless attempt to reassure himself that he was not yet exposed.

"NEVER TOUCH THE MASK," he exclaimed, any trace of the infinite joy completely gone. Her fingers were still curled on the black cloth, but the material was still in its place. His fist tightened around her slender wrist, and she was forced to let the cloth slip from her grasp as a whimper escaped her throat. His heart thudded wildly against his ribcage, and Erik could not hear her protests, "NEVER, CHRISTINE, TRY AGAIN TO TOUCH ERIK'S MASK. YOU SHALL NEVER SEE ERIK'S FACE."

And as if Christine were shaken awake from a dream, her eyes suddenly looking at the menacing, expressionless leather mask before her and the golden eyes that shined in agony behind it, color left her cheeks in a wave of fear. She tried to pull her arm away from him, but his bony claw-like fingers were only tightening more, like the firm grip of the death.

"Unhand me, Erik!" Christine yelled, desperately wanting to get as far away from his ghastly grip, but Erik seemed to not have heard anything, his fingers frozen as a corpse's. Her wild curls bounced around her head as her movements became more violent. "You are harming me!"

"NEVER TRY TO SEE ERIK'S FACE AGAIN, CHRISTINE," he cried, shaking the small woman, who became rigid in an instinctual stillness in a mixture of fear and shock before his rage. He did not look at her; his eyes only saw fear, his ears only heard screams, his skin only felt old scars opening once again. He saw her shrink in fear, and, in his head, she had already seen him: every detail and shape that repulsed him to the core, that had made him stay awake at night and had earned him nothing but hate, all bare to her innocent eyes! Oh, the _horror_!

"Unhand me right now, Erik!" She exclaimed once again, the blood under her skin racing and boiling, gathering in her face now in a pure fury, making the fear recede, "Why can I not see it, Erik? What do you have to hide from your own wife? Are you not an honest man? If you are, then show your face!"

"NO!" Yelled Erik, his hand finally releasing her and clutching his head more desperately, burying his clothed face in his forearms as his body fell forward against the tiles of the piano. And for a second his mind's screams stopped, replaced by the horrid yell of the piano as his arms and head hit it. He did it once, twice, and then again, telling his mind with every scream of the tiles that no, she had not seen his face, that everything was alright, that she could still love him! "YOU MUST NEVER SEE THE HORROR! OH, THE COMPLETE _HORROR_ OF ERIK'S FACE!"

He got up in a quick move, not even noticing that the bench he had been sitting on had fallen behind him, and ran past her while still clutching his head. Christine was left alone, confused and angered.

Erik ran to his room and slammed the door shut behind him as his trembling fingers fought with the lock. The skeletal man silently slipped against the closed door and curled in the floor, with his knees up to his chest as he let a sour cry of desperation leave his throat, drowning the sound against his arms.

"She did not see, she did not see, _she did not see_!" murmured Erik under his breath once and again, so quick that his word stumbled over one another. He ripped his gloves off his hands and passed them over his masked face, feeling under his fingertips the rough sensation of the leather. He dragged his fingernails over it and felt no pain. His body rocked back and forth as his words kept repeating over and over and his fingernails started to peel off pieces of the leather of his mask.

Then the image of Christine, pale-faced and _scared_ , using her precious voice to _yell at him_ how he had _hurt her_ appeared in his mind. No, no, _no_. _Please_ , _no_! He had _scared her!_ He! He, and not his face, _HE_!

He had ruined everything! _Everything_! He had scared his beautiful, perfect, pure and blessed wife with his horrible, imperfect, impure and cursed flesh! Now she would never love him after she knew how terrible and how unsuitable he was as a husband! Everything was ruined!

But even worse than that, Erik had harmed Christine! His terrible hands had dared to touch her with anger and force, and not the gentleness and softness that she deserved! Had his fingers left marks on her delicate skin? Had it hurt much? Will she ever forgive him for such a horrid act? Erik was the worst, the worst, the worst! Erik did not deserve her forgiveness!

He hugged his knees harder, as his fingernails finally let the ruined leather of his mask and instead buried themselves on the palms of his hands until they bled, as another wave of tears fell from his sunken, hollow eyes. Erik remained there until he had no more tears to shed. All the while, the house was silent; no trace of Christine anywhere to be heard, and that only made his grief worse.

Erik didn't know how long it took, but at some point, he heard a gentle, tentative knock on his door:

"Erik?" Came the soft voice of his wife from the other side, "Are you alright? I... just want to apologize."

Erik did not answer and instead buried his head deeper against his knees as his fist tightened in the few hairs on his head beneath the wig. He didn't want to hear that, not from her! He was the one who had harmed her! He was the one who yelled first! He should apologize, not her!

In a moment he was up on his trembling legs and opened the door before Christine could say another word; a clumsy apology ready to be said already forming on his throat. From behind the mask, he saw her, but only observed two things: one, her wrist indeed had his devil's marks; and two, her wedding ring had been taken off.

And whatever spark of strength had been able to hold him up at that moment left him, falling to his knees as he hugged with desperation the legs of his wife.

"Christine, Christine!" He cried, rubbing his head against her dress, "forgive me, forgive your Erik! He is sorry, so very sorry! He meant no harm, and yet he has injured you! Oh, he deserves death and the eternal flames for having dared to put a single one of his wretched fingers on you!"

He wept harder, letting his tears wet her dress through the cloth of his mask, while his arms clutched her as if his life itself depended on nothing but the forgiveness he did not deserve.

Though he did not see it, a trembling hand hesitated for a second before resting on his shoulder. Erik opened his eyes and looked up at her, shocked by her unexpected action; both of them with the overwhelming urge to move away.

"It is alright, Erik," she said softly, and the reassuring smile she offered him was the strangest gestures he had ever seen, "It was I who tried to take off your mask without your permission. Forgive me."

This time Erik pulled away in a rapid move that startled her, making him fall back.

"No, Christine, no! Why are you apologizing to Erik? It is _him_ who did you wrong! It is _him_ who needs to apologize; _he_ is the monster, _he_ is the beast! And it is I who begs you not to leave him! Oh, please, do not leave your poor, unhappy Erik!" He cried again, lowering his head to clutch and kiss over and over the hem of her dress as he murmured more senseless apologies.

Christine almost cried at the pitiful sight.

"Erik, I am not going to leave you," she said, lowering on her knees to be at his level, but his head was still not looking at her direction, overwhelmed with shame. "Why are you even suggesting that? You are my husband and I cannot leave you."

"But you have taken your wedding ring off! You are going to leave Erik just like every person does, he knows!" He wept harder, "only in law you are his wife!"

He cried, knowing that in truth, not even in that were they married. A man with no name nor country could never marry, and the eyes of God were blind on him for all he knew. She was not his; not in heart, nor in body, nor in law. She was simply not his.

Christine looked down at her husband, trembling at her feet like a child, looking painfully thin and frail and so small even though when standing he could easily tower over her. The man looked broken.

"That is... enough," she whispered, her hand moving slowly up and down his arm trying to reassure him, "I am your wife nonetheless. I will not leave you."

"You... will not?" Erik dared to hope, his voice barely a whisper. He observed her hand moving over his arm, and the reddish marks across the white skin reminded him that he had no right to even beg.

"No, I will not," she answered, her gentle caresses over his arm gaining more confidence, "Nor will I ever try to touch your mask again. I promise."

"Oh, Christine, you are so kind to your Erik!" He exclaimed, the worries of the missing ring easing at her words, and frenetically kissing the hem of her dress again, "thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"We need to clean your wounds, Erik," Christine murmured, giving his arm a gentle squeeze, "Come."

Erik's head raised in question, and only after she carefully grabbed his sleeve he understood her meaning: the palms of his hands were still bleeding a little through the small cuts his own fingernails had made on his skin.

"Come." Christine's hand dropped as she tried to stand up, and as soon as the contact left him, Erik missed it deeply. How sweet a simple, tender touch could be!

"No," he said, standing up after her and trying his best to sound controlled. He was lucky she could not see his tears still falling behind the mask, and would not abuse his wife's generosity by making her bear the sight of his corpse hands any longer. "Erik can do it."

Christine offered him one last forced smile -which he appreciated nonetheless-, before walking off to her room. He did not notice that she did not insist.

Erik crawled back into his room once he had heard the door of her room close, and laid in his coffin while still crying. He cared not for his hands and had no intention to take care of them. If they pained, it was because they deserved it after having hurt his Christine. He wanted to bang them over the tiles of the organ until thy bled harder or at least one bone shattered. The guilt would not disappear simply because his wife had forgiven him; oh, no, he had to make up for the awful, terrible thing Erik had done to her.

She was the most precious and beautiful thing in his life; his sun, his rain, his wind, and his earth! And he had made her suffer! Unbelievable!

He would have to give her gifts. More dresses and shoes and make up and whatever other things women liked. Flowers? Yes, flowers! More flowers, indeed! Everything she wanted and needed, he would give it to her! If she asked for him to die, he would do it for her!

He moved out of the coffin, unable to stay still any longer. Looking at his pocket watch, he saw that he had stayed all night awake; the hand of the clock shining over the blurry six in the dying candlelight. He had to leave soon, there was so much to do!

As he gathered clean clothes and made his way to the bathroom, he realized that, in truth, Erik would have never done anything of the sorts to scare his wife if she had not touched his mask, so in reality, it was her fault. Who in their right mind would have ever tried to rip off someone else's mask? What was the woman even thinking? Did she believe that he wore it for simple anonymity? He wished it could be like that! What a wonderful life it would be if a mask were a game and not a second skin!

He dismissed all thoughts of her blame, convinced that it was his fault -always the monster's fault! Never Christine's; sweet, kind, gentle Christine who could not help her womanly curiosity!-, as the flowing water caught his attention. He closed the faucet and took a quick bath, not wanting to lose too much time nor being alone with his judging thoughts for too long. Once he was clean and properly dressed in new clothes, he left his room and passed in front of Christine's -he could be sleeping there with her right now; he _should_ be there right now-, before making his way to the kitchen.

He prepared a vast breakfast for her, and distractedly nibbled on a piece of bread with cheese; his hunger as absent as always but aware that he had to ingest something either way, with his hands once again moving on their own while his mind already wandered through the best stores and found the finest of presents.

But even in his state of distraction, he was well aware of when the door of his beloved opened, just in time for her breakfast. He quickly finished the last bite of the bread and pulled down the black silk of his mask, before Christine slowly entered the kitchen. He gave a deep breath and forced his hands to stop trembling.

"Good morning, dear," he said with a cheerful tone and giving her a smile that she thankfully couldn't see. Smiling to his wife, even if knowing it was pointless, made him feel like a normal husband. At least in that, he could comply without his poor wife having to even notice.

Christine looked surprised for a moment, evidently expecting Erik to act strangely over what had happened the night before, but quickly composed herself and returned the smile weakly as she greeted him back. He loved that: the way she always returned all his smiles even if she never saw any of his.

"I made breakfast; please, take a seat while I prepare your tea," said Erik.

"Erik, I was thinking... that perhaps I should go to the Opera today," replied Christine, ignoring his previous command as she got closer to him.

"We are at the Opera already," he answered, pouring the tea on her cup. Sometimes it was easier to pretend he did not understand.

"No, I meant... I meant going above," she said with nervousness, "I will miss rehearsals, and in the chorus -"

"No more chorus, Christine," said Erik cutting her off midsentence.

"What -What do you mean...?" She stammered, her blue eyes widening in fear of the worst.

"I do not train you to be a chorus girl," he said, finally turning to her, "You will become the best Prima Donna to ever set foot in this Opera. Nothing less is worthy of your talent."

Erik smiled smugly behind his mask, though his tone remained blank; he was sure she had the capacity -no, the obligation, almost!- to become a star. Her talent was natural, her voice full of potential, and he had been able to see that even when the light of her eyes was foggy with emptiness before his voice had given her a reason to sing.

"You mean... You mean I can still sing? At the Opera?" She asked, her eyes suddenly low like a nervous little girl.

Behind the mask, Erik's brow furrowed in confusion, looking at her as if she had grown a second head. Where did that question even come from?

"Why do you even question that, Christine? Your voice is too pure, too good to let it rot! It needs to be shared with the world! That is why I train you, Christine."

"I just thought that since we are now married you would want me to stay home and..." she babbled, then straightened her back and looked at him, her eyes shining with determination, "I don't want to stay in the house. I want to return to the Opera, to my job."

"And you shall, my dear, I just told you," he answered still confused, "but not now. Now we are on our honeymoon, and you shall spend time with your selfish husband."

"But I need to go. The managers don't know where I am, and if they see me absent -"

"Do not worry about such things," he said, raising a hand to stop her, "Let Erik take care of that. Eat your breakfast and later -"

But whatever he had been about to say died in his mouth as the piercing sound of the electric bell resonated through the house. His brow furrowed in annoyance, but it quickly became pure anger at the sight of his beautiful, delicate wife covering her ears and yelling over the sound for an explanation. Whoever had dared to enter his domain, and worst of all, make his wife _uncomfortable_ , the Siren would have no mercy nor hurry. Its blood was already boiling with anticipation.

"Wait here," he said and left the kitchen, his anger growing every second as he approached the exit of the house. He closed the door after him, and then the sound stopped.

Once outside the house, in the quietness of the cellar and standing in the nearly complete darkness, a single sound caught Erik's attention: water. The water was moving.

No, it was not the water: it was something in the water, slowly sliding across the perpetually still lake to come their way. Someone had taken _his_ boat and was crossing _his_ lake.

The Siren would not permit it.

-0-

 **Author's Note:** I'm sorry for playing with your feelings, but as a writer, that is my job. I know you were probably expecting a dramatic unmasking, but hey, at least with the drama part I did deliver!

But UUUGH, I was SO tempted to make Christine take care of Erik's hands. I had the whole scene planned already, but I was halfway through writing it and I thought –wait, no, that's too cute. That's too happy. No, let them suffer for a while longer. (You're welcome C: )

And ah, I'm a weak soul when it comes to angst, you know? I couldn't resist! But don't worry, I have already something _way_ better planned. You'll love it. (Though it's still quite in the future, but still!)

And remember, my dear children: us writers eat, breath, and drink reviews. It is our whole reason to live! I get SO excited every time I get one! Please make this poor writer happy and leave one!:)


	6. Chapter 6

Part VI: The Persian

Christine Daaé had disappeared two days ago.

No one in the Opera House knew where exactly she was, and when the Persian had tried to speak to her fellow chorus girls, the most common answer he had gotten was a strange look followed by the questioning of who the Daaé girl was. The managers had refused to speak with him at all, arguing that they had no time for a chorus member. And, after having drained all other resources, he had been able to find the girl's residence and had tried to speak to her guardian, but once again all his efforts were useless. The world seemed determined to hide Christine Daaé.

So the Persian had decided –or rather, had been forced to decide- to confront the problem with the person he knew would be the direct root of the issue: Erik.

It was always Erik.

His strange friend had taken a special... liking, just to say, to the girl. The last time the Persian had seen Erik, about a month ago, the miserable skeleton man could not stop praising the floor under mlle. Daaé's little feet, while rambling about how much he was sure that, if she let him, he could make her the best soprano Europe had ever known. And all that extremely tiring conversation had happened during the lapse of the five minutes it took Erik to disable one of his traps. The Persian had almost wished Erik had just let him there, hanging upside down from the fifth cellar's ceiling.

Nevertheless, the Persian had then decided not to pop Erik's bubble and had silently endured his friend's lovesick silliness, wrongly thinking that perhaps Erik's friendship –and infatuation- with this girl could make him some good. The girl was known around the Opera, as the Persian had learned later after an extensive investigation, for being nice, timid, and polite. He had laughed thinking that perhaps some of that goodness could be transferred to Erik.

But now the Persian wasn't laughing. The girl had disappeared, and he cursed himself for not having thought that perhaps Erik's infatuation with Mlle. Daaé could end up being dangerous for her. The poor man had never had a normal relationship of any sort, much less a romantic involvement with a young woman, and perhaps the painful strike of first love was not precisely the best start for him. He could imagine Erik kidnapping the girl; of course he could, after all, the Persian had seen the monster doing nameless things in the past, and regardless of the efforts the Persian had taken over the years to keep Erik's dangerous actions at bay, there was truly no complete guarantee that he did not continue doing more behind the Persian's back. Sometimes the Persian felt more like his babysitter than his friend.

Somehow, however, he doubted that Erik was truly to harm Christine. He spoke of her as if she were his everything, and his terrible eyes illuminated with the spark of love every time he said her name. But he also knew that Erik had little self-control when provoked. He just prayed that the girl had not made the monster angry yet…

On the third day, desperate because of both the inactivity of the Opera Ghost and the absence of the girl, the Persian ventured down to the monster's lair. He had tried to get to the house more than once, and in each attempt he had always got lost in the darkness, or fell prey to Erik's infallible traps; but with each attempt he had also learned more of his strange friend's behavior, and had even gotten a glimpse of one of Erik's secret passages.

Sooner than he thought, the Persian found himself at the shore of the lake, submerged in a near-complete darkness. The house stood silent and imposing on the other side of the water, hiding the sins of the madman without a protest. The Persian had never been able to see it from the inside, as Erik had always forbidden him entrance, and all he hoped and prayed for was that its insides were not to be the last thing he saw, knowing well that Erik might not hesitate to kill him if he felt attacked by the Persian's uninvited presence on his house. Erik had forgiven the Persian's life perhaps too many times, and it was impossible to know when exactly would his patience finally snap and get rid of him permanently.

The Daroga found a small boat, tied to a post even though the artificial lake was still as the dead. He got in it and untied the rope, starting to row across the silent water as unnoticeable as possible, aware that Erik could appear from nowhere any second. Each contact of the rowing stick against the inky water echoed inside the cavern and inside the man's head.

But no, Erik did not appear, and that did nothing to ease the poor man's nerves. Suddenly, the suffocating silence of the underground labyrinth was cut by the most beautiful sound the Persian had ever heard: a gentle and pure, golden voice; soothing like a mother's comforting words and soft as silk, resonating around him. It bloomed from under him, from the depths of the waters below.

It was the most fantastic sound in existence, and it clouded his mind against better judgment. The Persian, with his body acting on its own while his mind stood numb, leaned on the side of the boat, the rowing stick forgotten some time he could not care or recall, trying to amplify such a hypnotic sound. It was like a moth attracted to the blinding, burning, beautiful flames.

Then a pair of claws emerged from the depths of the lake, taking him by the neck and dragging him to the bottom. The Persian snapped out of the dream-like state the moment his face touched the icy water and had no time to even draw breath when his body had already stopped touching the safety of the boat.

He fought with all his force to be freed from the constricting death trap; his arms moving desperately and his legs kicking senselessly underwater, nearly in a panic.

With a hard and blind kick on the Siren's side, the Persian momentarily escaped its claws, and frenetically moved to the surface, with the Siren's fingers still trying to take him back down.

"ERIK!" He yelled as soon as his head was out of the water, before being slightly pulled down once more, "ERIK, I-" the disturbed waves of water entered his open mouth and made him choke on his words; his arms and legs desperately trying to maintain him on the surface, while his lungs seemed to flood with the unwelcomed water of the lake. "I SAVED- I SAVED YOUR LIFE! IT'S... ME!"

The arms were once again around him, and the Persian instinctively tried to take them off him, but this time they did not try to take him down but instead dragged him sideways. The fingers dug themselves on the Persian's side, painfully immobilizing him.

"Damn you, you great booby!" Exclaimed an angered voice after ungracefully landing the man on the shore, "Do you wish to die?"

The Persian coughed a few times, sitting up on the shore while he tried to catch his breath and for his eyes to adapt. And there he was, the owner of many of his nightmares: Erik, soaked to the bone, putting his dry mask back in place.

The bastard had tried to kill him _again_.

"Erik," he coughed some water out, "what the hell were you- were you doing on the bottom of the lake?"

"What were you doing in Erik's lake? Were you trying to stick your ugly nose in Erik's business again, Daroga?" Snapped Erik.

'At least _I_ have a nose,' The Persian had to bit back the comment before it came out, not having been in the man's presence for ten minutes and already annoyed beyond belief by it. Bothering him with merely a few sentences was one of the many talents Erik possessed, indeed. But of course, one is hardly ever in the mood for chit chat after nearly having been killed.

"Do not act innocent with me, Erik, you know very well why I am here: you have abducted Mlle. Daaé!" Exclaimed the Persian accusatory. His heart was still beating fast, and he quickly made a mental note to never again try to come down there. He wasn't that young anymore, it seemed.

Erik, instead of trying to deny it as the Persian had assumed he would do, merely laughed that macabre, strange sound that came out of him as easily as the Siren's song. It sent a disgusted shudder up the Persian's back.

"Ah, that is all!" Erik laughed, and the Persian was about to snap that kidnapping young ladies was not something for him to laugh so merrily about –truly, every conversation he had with that man had to add at least a few more grey hairs to his head!-, when the monster added: "You are late in the news, Daroga! Christine is not my prisoner, she is my wife! I love her!"

"She is your what?" The Persian almost choked once again, and Erik's laugh died immediately.

"Do not look so surprised, Daroga. I can marry too; I am a man," the cold tone on his voice warned the Persian to erase the shocked look from his face if he did not wish to be returned quite ungracefully to the bottom of the lake.

"Yes, yes, of course you are, it's just-" the man shifted uncomfortably in his place, still in shock at the unexpected twist. He suddenly felt quite foolish. "I had thought you had kidnapped her."

"Well, Erik did not!" He replied, cheerful once more, "I asked her to marry me, and she said yes! Oh, Daroga, it was perfect! I have married the most beautiful and perfect of all the women in this world!"

As Erik rambled about senseless details of his perfect wife and their perfect wedding –despite it being a marriage of convenience, for what the Persian could see from behind the curtain of the rose-tinted tale-, some common sense and logic seemed to slowly come back into the Persian as shock retreated. Why was Erik wearing the barbed mask? When he was in the Opera he never wore it, and now, when only the closest thing he had to a friend and the woman he was supposed to be married to were here, Erik covered his face.

The answer came right to him as Erik enthusiastically described the beautiful handmade veil he had given to his wife for the wedding.

"Erik," the Persian called, but Erik did not seem to pay attention, "has she seen you?"

And Erik's overexcited voice turned to complete silence. The Persian man knew two things at that moment: One, that he had made a terrible mistake; and two, that Christine Daaé had blindly and foolishly married a man without even knowing of his... condition.

"No, and she shall never know." 

Things could only go down from then on regardless of what he said –Erik had always been such a stubborn man!-, so the Persian might as well try to get the most out of the conversation now.

"Erik, if she really is your wife-" the Persian was quickly cut off. Mistake number two.

"She _is_ my wife!" Exclaimed the man, angered at the Persian's distrust, and, trying to fix it before Erik's temper broke off and the infamous lasso appeared, the Persian said, raising his hands to the level of his eyes in surrender:

"Yes, yes, of course, but that is only more reason for you to tell her about your-". Mistake number three. The Persian was out. At least today he got to three.

"You have to go."

"What-?"

Quicker than the Persian could react, Erik was on his feet again, taking him by the shirt and dragging him to the lake.

"Erik, wait-!" The Persian tried to take Erik's hands off him, but the man had the hold of a beast, dragging him effortlessly closer and closer to the lake's shore.

"What is happening here?"

The voice of salvation spoke behind him, and the deadly grasp of the hand immediately let go. The Persian observed, astonished, how the terrifying monster in front of him turned to a puddle of softness at the sight of the small blonde woman.

"Christine! I told you to stay inside the house!" He scolded, but the Persian, knowing Erik better than any other human being in this world did, noticed how that even though Erik was annoyed, his voice never lost its gentleness.

"Why are you treating that poor man in such a manner, Erik?" Replied Christine, seeming horrified at the monster's actions. Erik suddenly seemed smaller as he took a step away from the Persian.

"He is a nosy, inopportune Daroga! Never leaving Erik alone!" Erik complained, and the Daroga thought he sounded like a little boy trying to justify to his mother why he wrote on the wall.

"So you know this man, and you still treat him like that? Poor him!" Christine quickly moved to the Persian's side, "are you alright, monsieur?"

The dark-skinned man quickly composed himself, and if it had not been for the strange situation, he might have had erupted into laughter right there. Who would say that a small, fragile-looking girl half his own age would be able to dominate the fearful Angel of Death?  
"Yes, thank you, mademoiselle," he answered, purposefully using the wrong label while smiling a polite smile at her. He got up to his feet and brushed the dust off his pants.

" _'Madame'_ , actually," she smiled softly, and had the light been better in that infernal cavern, the Persian would have noticed how the joy in her eyes seemed to diminish when she said it, "I am Christine Da- just Christine. Nice to meet you."

"Nadir Khan, at your service. I am an old friend of Erik's" replied the Daroga, making a slight reverence, "so it is true? you are truly married to Erik?"

"Yes, I am," Christine answered, raising her hand to show her wedding ring, shining in the extremely dim light of the carven.

"I told you so, you great buffoon!" Exclaimed Erik, "you thought I was lying?"

"Please, come inside, monsieur," suggested Christine, ignoring Erik's protests, "any friend of Erik's should also be my friend and is always welcome in our house."

The Persian man followed the Swedish woman, also ignoring the annoyed murmurs of the masked, resigned man to follow his wife's wishes.

Once they entered the light of the house, the Persian observed every detail possible, trying to identify some trick of Erik's or any indication that this was a trap. Everything seemed in order, however, if one just ignored the very obvious presence of the thousand decaying flowers that still flooded the room. But of course, this was Erik, and nothing was what it seemed when it came to him.

"My God! Why are you two soaked?" Asked Christine genuinely surprised. The Persian had to suppress a sad smirk: the girl really did not know what kind of man she had just married. He just hoped that the innocent girl never got to find out.

"The Daroga fell into the lake and Erik helped him out. The old fool was drowning," explained Erik simply, shrugging it off as if it were nothing. The Daroga made sure to show no surprise at Erik's made-up story, and instead simply nodded in agreement when the woman's eyes looked at him for confirmation. He had known the skeletal man for years, and they were completely used by now to follow the other's idea without a question or ask. That unspoken agreement had saved their lives on more occasions than the Persian cared to recall.

"Dear Lord! Are you sure you are alright, monsieur? Please, come to sit, come to sit!" Urged Christine, leading both men to the sofas in front of the fireplace, but neither of them sat down.

"He is alright, my dear, do not worry for an old fool like him," said Erik.

"Yes, madame, I am alright," answered the Persian, sending a deadly side look to Erik. The masked man ignored it completely, though the Persian could almost imagine his grin under the mask.

"I shall bring you some towels and prepare some tea, then." Christine excused herself and quickly made her way into the bathroom to retrieve the items.

As soon as they were alone, Erik turned into the Persian's direction, and if a look could kill, the Persian would be dead by now.

"Why are you here, you great booby? This is our honeymoon, and you are not invited along!"

The Daroga almost laughed at the statement, "trust me, my friend, if I had known you were so... busy, I would not have come. It is just that Mlle. Daaé has not been seen anywhere in three days, and you must understand that I was simply worried."

" _Madame_ , Daroga, it's _'Madame'_! She is a married woman now! And I am taking good care of my wife," he answered between gritted teeth, "you can go now. Erik and his wife were discussing some serious matters."

"I will be leaving soon, but first I need to speak to your wife." The Persian said.

" Do you still not trust Erik? Fool! Christine just told you that she truly is his wife!"

"Erik," called Christine, emerging from the adjacent room with a pile of towels on her arms, "I would very much enjoy a nice talk with this friend of yours if you do not mind."

Erik looked at her, his probable discomfort hidden under the mask. He let himself fall back to the armchair and muttered a simple "fine" under his breath as his wife gave him a towel.

The Persian noticed how Christine faked disinterest when her husband turned around to dry his face under the mask as she gave the other towel to the Persian. The poor girl; she was lucky to not have seen that nightmarish face yet. The Persian just hoped that, when she eventually found the truth, she would be strong enough not to crumble. He knew that if Christine left Erik, the man would die; and he needed nothing but a quick glance towards the man to know that with certainty.

Because in truth, despite his lifetime of experience, his poor friend had always been weak to the prospect of love and affection, and the unhappy man probably believed himself to finally have been able to find it just because there was now a ring on his finger. The poor, unhappy monster could sometimes be so painfully _innocent_.

Christine quickly left to the kitchen, only to return soon after with a trait containing three humming cups, sugar cubes, and milk.

As the woman sat at one end of the sofa, and the Persian politely sat at the other, she offered him the tea. He accepted.

The room filled with a palpable tension, as the blonde woman and the Persian man feigned sudden interest in the contents of their cups and the masked man simply stared at the scene, not even bothering in dissimulating.

"So, M. Khan," started the woman, "how did you meet my husband? And, forgive me for my impoliteness, but I had never before heard of you."

The sweet girl, trying to pretend before their guest that Erik and she had a normal marriage full of trust and love. The Daroga well knew that the girl didn't even know her husband's face, much less who his friends were.

"We met in my home country, Persia," answered the Daroga, "around twenty years ago, when he used to live there."

"Twenty-two years, five months, and a week, exactly," corrected Erik, and though his tone was as murderous as always, the Daroga almost smiled at his exactitude. In his strange and unnerving way, Erik did care about him.

"Persia? Oh, I did not know you had lived in another country," commented Christine, her curiosity sounding genuine. Oh, there were _many_ things the girl didn't know, and on a list of importance, the fact that he had lived in Persia was at the bottom.

"I have been and lived in many places, my dear," he answered," Erik has known much more than just the darkness of the cellars."

An ashamed blush crept to the girl's face, as her eyes lowered to the cup on her hands once again.

"Madame," the Persian cleared his throat, knowing well that his next words must be carefully selected if he did not wish to end up with the lasso around his neck, "forgive me for the sudden change of topic but would you mind if I ask how did you meet Erik? As you might have noticed, my friend here is not the best when it comes to socializing, and I'll assume it must be no different when it comes to lovely young ladies such as yourself."

There it was, simple and straightforward. His strange uneasiness making him unable to recur to his usually polite, tentative talk before throwing the bomb and was instead forced to taint the conversation with out of place humor –that if he wasn't _extremely_ careful could cost him his neck- and insecure smiles. It was just such a bizarre scene: him, damped to the bone after almost being murdered, sitting five cellars below ground level in a drawing room full of soon-to-rot flowers, facing a young woman whose eyes seemed twice her age and claimed to be the happy wife of the monster that was currently eating him alive with his glowing stare, and who, by the way, was also the one who had attempted to murder him.

All while drinking tea with a single cube of sugar, no milk, thank you.

"Oh, not at all," answered Christine, sipping her cup to hide the evident nervousness, but the Persian noticed that she actually seemed relieved for the change in conversation, "but I would have thought Erik to be the one to tell the news since you are a close friend to him."

The Persian smiled, "As you will come to know, madame, Erik and I have a very unique friendship."

"Please, monsieur, call me Christine," she said, "I am still not used to 'madame'."

"I will be very pleased to, but only if you agree to call me Nadir," he smiled back. It seemed that all the things he had heard about the gentleness of the girl were true this far. At least in that sense, the Persian could be tranquil that his friend had gotten himself a nice life companion.

"I told you we met when I spoke to her in her dressing room," Erik interfered, and something in his voice made the Persian realize that Erik was no longer merely annoyed, but rather, he was starting to become angry. He'll have to make his visit briefer than he had thought, then.

"It's true, but beyond that, there is not much to say. We simply started to talk one day, and one thing led to the other."

Persian knew the story since his deadly friend could barely manage to shut up about it for longer than three minutes, but that was the problem: he knew Erik's version. A madman's, a man in love's version. He needed to know the truth, though he hardly believed he would be able to get too many details with Erik's imposing presence so near. 

Yet he said nothing, even though his arms were angrily crossed over his chest and his cup of tea untouched right where his wife had left it.

"I see," said the Persian with a tone that clearly invited Christine to continue.

"We got married three days ago," answered Christine, and after a bit of hesitation that the Persian did not miss, she added, "it was lovely."

"It must have been. It is a real shame I was not invited," said the Daroga with a smirk, merely wanting to tease Erik and ease a little the tension in the room.

"Erik would have invited you to his wedding if you weren't so annoying," Erik said.

The Persian almost laughed and pretended once again not to notice the evident discomfort or the quivering smile of the happy bride. The reddish finger marks on her arm did not escape him, either.

-0-

 **Author's note** : I think I should clarify something before I continue: this fic is Leroux-based, _NOT_ Kay-based. There will be very few and vague details that I'll be borrowing from Kay's novel (such as the Persian's real name, and merely because that's the fans' favorite and the one I am most used to). I have not read Kay's novel, so please ignore whatever is mentioned of Erik's and the Persian's lives in that canon, because it will probably not apply to this fic –unless otherwise stated. There are simply too many things that keep throwing me off when it comes to that novel (such as Erik's addictions) that I don't want in my fic.

With that being said, I hope you still enjoy my version of the Persian and Erik! Because God, if I thought Erik's character was a challenge to write, that was merely because I had never written for the Daroga before! I hope I was able to transmit the "it's been like thirty years and I'm still babysitting this dude; I need vacations" vibe mixed with a little of "I would die for you because honestly, you're like my brother but please stay at least six meters away from me thank you".

I know it was kind of predictable that the intruder was the Persian, -Y'all are no fun, guessing it so quickly! Jk, I love you, guys- but hey, after the plot-twist from last chapter, a little of predictability is forgivable, right?:) Also, I'm SO sorry this took so long, but it has been some very busy days for me. I just hope my writing didn't get too affected by it!

As always, please leave your lovely reviews! Constructive criticism and suggestions are always welcome!:) 


	7. Chapter 7

Part VII: Christine

The whole evening had been a disaster, to say the least, but after three days of marriage, Christine was starting to think that perhaps that was just the way things worked five cellar below the ground.

The Persian man, who her husband called "Daroga" for a reason unknown to her, had left a little while after he had finished his cup of tea, probably as suffocated with the strange atmosphere as she herself was. He had been nice; strange but nice with that peaceful expression on his older face. However, Christine couldn't avoid feeling something might be off, and not only with the man himself, but with his whole "friendship" with Erik as well. A part of her did not truly believe the story of the drowning and the hero, but M. Khan had confirmed the story, and there seemed to be no other logical explanation, unless...-

"Is he not your friend, Erik? Why did you urge him to go that much?" Christine, trying to sound casual rather than disappointed, asked once the couple was once again alone. The truth was that, more than the thousand flowers and the hundred gifts, Christine had loved M. Khan's visit: seeing a normal man in this normal house and having a normal chat in which neither of the participants referred to themselves in third person had helped her calm her nerves. She could nearly forget that her husband wore a strange mask and that they lived underground, if it had not been for his constant comments to the man of his inopportunity.

"He is no friend of Erik's, but he is the closest thing Erik has to one," Erik answered, with no trace of sadness or regret on his voice.

At least in that sense Christine could say that she truly understood her husband: she had no friends either. Sure, she talked once in a while with the chorus members, gave some candies to the little ballet girls, or had a nice cup of tea with the older residents of the Opera, but that was as far as it went. Since her father's departure, Christine had found no strength nor desire to truly mingle with the masses, and her interactions with others were reduced to formalities and little conversations once in a while.

The Voice had changed that, she supposed. He had been the first person that Christine had honestly and wholeheartedly considered a friend since her father, but now that things were... different, she supposed she was once again friendless if she did not count Mamma Valérius, who in truth was closer to a mother than to a friend.

"Then why did you want him gone with such urgency?" Christine insisted. After the conversation with M. Khan had drifted away to a more comfortable topic, she had truly began to enjoy the companionship, and had done her best to hide the disappointment when he had refused a second cup of tea. Playing hostess had made her feel like a normal wife, even if she had felt the eyes of her guest looking for lies behind her every word. She knew he had seen the marks on her arm, too, and had been inmensely thankful when he had politely ignored them.

"I told you already, Christine: this is our honeymoon, and Erik is selfish," he answered, with a touch of annoyance in his voice, "The Daroga is a nosy, persistent old man; he'll come again."

Christine nodded and said no more, and turned her sight to the flames in the fireplace. In three days, the light of the fire had been the closest thing she's had to sunlight.

"Erik," she called, "how long is our honeymoon going to last?"

"Do you wish to finish your breakfast, my dear?" Erik replied instead, as if her question had not been heard. She persisted.

"Erik, I would rather-"

"The food must be cold already and it's almost-" he looked at his pocket watch, "almost eleven in the morning. Would you wish to eat your breakfast still, or do you want to have lunch instead?"

"You are not answering my question," she said, with her arms crossing in dislike. She didn't appreciate his sudden and unjustified change of topic.

"Neither are you answering mine," he replied, emotionless.

She sighed. "No, Erik, I do not want to finish the breakfast. I would rather wait for lunch. Now, you answer my question."

"Two weeks."

Christine gasped lightly.

"Two weeks? Erik, that is such a long time!" Christine exclaimed. She could not spend two whole weeks without sunlight, without people, without church on Sundays or without her Mamma. She could not. She needed the scenary, the lights, the muffled gossips and senseless little giggles of the ballerinas. She needed to give Ceasar a sugar cube and brush his hair. She needed to hear the noise of the living and not the eternal quietness of the death.

She needed _air._

"Do you not wish to spend this time with your loving husband? Do you wish to leave him already?" He asked, and Christine could recognize the borderline desperation in his voice.

The memory of her intimidating husband gripping her skirts and trembling like a moribund gasping for a last breath crossed her mind for a second, and the thought made the thin hairs on her forearms stand from horror.

It was, after all, an image she felt would always haunt her in her nightmares: she had broken him. He had passed from the happiest man on earth -perhaps even too happy-, to a trembling mess of fright. She had never seen a grown man act so much like a child, and the idea that it had been her the one who had made him react in such a way was maddening.

"It is not that, Erik, it's just..." Christine dragged her sight through the room, avoiding the leather of his mask as much as possible, "I want to see my mamma."

And it was not a lie. Christine loved Madame Valérius more than she loved life itself -and the fact that she had completely thrown away her own for hers was proof enough- but the frail woman was nowhere near her true reason for wanting to leave with such desperation: it was him.

If things had been awkward for Christine before the... incident with the mask, it had been nowhere near the past night and morning. She had been unable to find peace after that, listening to his heart-wreaking cries for hours from behind a locked bathroom door and throught the curtain of her hands and tears before suppressing her fear enough as to be able to simply apologize. And even after they had "fixed" the incident and she had left him once again overflowing with an unnerving happiness, a slight fear of another attack always lurked on her mind -even though a part of her told her that, as long as she did not do something as foolish as trying to rip off his mask again, she would be fine. He had proven to be nothing but a loving, though extremely frail and unstable, husband as long as her hands stood away from his face-, but the feeling was still strong on her, and her already disturbed mind had found just another excuse to want to leave with more desperation.

"Sweet Christine must worry for her mamma," the man said with a voice filled with adoration, "such a feeling that Erik cannot understand."

Christine had no time to find the meaning behind his comment, when he continued:

"You need not to worry, my dear wife: your Mamma has been receiving the best treatments that money can get since the day of our union. Erik takes good care of his mother-in-law. She is... Erik's family now."

She smiled weakly, her own concern not allowing her to hear the silent reverence that had surrounded his last sentences. "I am sure you do, Erik, but I would still like to go see her."

"Wives do not leave their husbands to see their mothers during their honeymoon."

His tone had been devoid of any trace of emotion, and a shiver ran down Christine's back. The ghost memory of his dead hands on her arm burned her skin.

"No, I guess they do not..."

"Then you shall not do it, either," he said with that same voice he had used just the day before when he had scared her out of the kitchen. His voice, her only window to his mind, could be so erratic and unpredictable.

As they sat silently in the room full of decaying flowers, she couldn't help but once again ask herself who was that man sitting with her. He was rich enough to maintain her, himself, and her guardian, yet he lived in a basement. He seemed old enough and yet he had not been married -not that Christine believed that young women were making infinite lines for the chance, but a man with his wealth could easily... afford one-. He was her husband and yet he did not touch her. He was in his own house and yet he did not take off his gloves, his hat, or his mask.

The man was such an oddity, and she had learned that the hard way.

But oh, Christine could forget that and everything else as soon as those deadly thin hands of his touched an instrument: it was as if heaven itself caressed her mind. It was bliss, but also doom. She had lost herself so deeply and senselessly that her body had acted on its own, trying to reach the forbidden fruit. The sound had unearthed her earthly curiosity; normally buried under the layers of fear and rejection, and by the time her feet had touched the ground again, her arm laid between the claws of the beast, and infernal cries pierced the silence of the dead house.

That same curiosity, which now laid buried deeper than before, could have been the end of her, and she knew it. Yet she dared to defy it again:

"M. Khan said you met in Persia..." she started, unsure about to where her attempt at a conversation was going, and even more unsure about the unpredictable reaction of her husband, "Was it... was it nice there?"

He took no time to answer, and she knew he had been analyzing her every heartbeat once again. It was as if the man did not believe she was there at all:

"It was, for a time," he said with his head moving in another direction, and Christine supposed his eyes were fixed on the flames, just like hers. It was easier to speak with each other if both of them pretended not to be with the other, Christine had concluded. "I learned many things."

"That sounds lovely," Christine replied, and took a few minutes of thinking how to continue the conversation, "why did you come to France, then?"

"I was no longer welcomed in Persia," he simply answered, and his thumb mindlessly rubbed his wedding ring. Christine saw the movement through the corner of her eye and remembered how terrible his naked hands looked; how disgusting they felt even through the leather; how her stomach turned at the sight of his dead hands dirtied with the dry blood of his own wounds. She also remembered how those same hands made her spirit soar with the music they made.

"Why not?" She found herself asking; her mouth moving on its own while her mind remained with his covered hands, and her eyes glued to the dancing flames.

Erik took a few moments to answer, and Christine had the feeling that he no longer remained in the room, but rather that his mind had traveled back to those days; to those moments spent on those mystical lands.

"A simple whim of the ones who have it all, but whose greedy hearts still desire more," he answered and, seeming to come back to the present, quickly added, "but do not feel sorry, my dear; I came back with the memories of a lifetime." 

"When I was little," Christine said, her tender words filled with adoration slipping out of her mouth before she had the time to think of them, "I used to travel everywhere with my father, because he was a musician. He used to say we would one day travel the whole world, and that there would be no land that I would not have stepped on… but then he fell ill, and we never got to travel again… perhaps, if he had not passed, we would have one day seen Persia, too"

Christine's words hung lightly on the air, as one of the earliest memories of her life appeared before her eyes: her father, sitting on a pile of hay and his face illuminated dimly by the light of their single oil lamp, telling her of the marvelous places they would one visit, and how there would be no place in the whole world that in which her little feet had not danced; no place that their voices had not reached, and no heart that their music had not warmed.

A small smile tinted with sadness for all that could never be appeared on her face, but it quickly disappeared as she came down to earth once more. They –Erik and her, siting on the living room, not Gustave and little Chirstine Daaé in an old barn- had fallen into a complete silence, only broken by the cracking of the dancing fire before them.

And Erik was looking at her. His eyes were no longer on the flames, like hers had, and instead were fixed on her. Christine left out a nervous little laugh, and was about to say something –anything, or perhaps nothing at all- when Erik stood up and walked towards one of the shelves covering each side of the fireplace. He looked just for a second before taking out of its place a great book and going back to his armchair.

"In Persia, the sun shines brighter than anywhere else," he said, and opened his book to an apparently random page before turning some more pages, "natural beauty of every color and shape cover it all; from north to south and from west to east; all until you think there is nothing else."

He raised the book and showed its open pages to her. There, floating in a cloud of color among the whiteness of the pages, stood a mountainous paradise; with its cloudless, bright sky interrupted by nothing but the blinding sun, and under it, the mountains consumed it all.

It was a handmade drawing; so expertly done that Christine could almost feel the dryness in the air around her, even through the blurriness of her defect eyes.

Without thinking, she slid across the sofa and positioned herself closer to Erik's armchair, where the light of the fireplace illuminated more vividly the handmade figures. The trees in the picture seemed to dance with the flames.

"But in the heart of it all, there is Mazandaran," he said before moving the book away from her sight and turning its pages once more, "I lived there for more than 20 years, but in all that time Erik could never love the sun."

On the next page he showed, there was a market. Colorful tents filled the sides of the crowded streets, and under them anything she could imagine was being sold: fruits, vegetables, fishes, jewels, clothes, books and more. Women with beautiful but unknown attires walked across the long street, carrying in large baskets with their purchases. Children played and ran everywhere, brandishing their little wooden swords in the air as they chased one another.

It was so well done that Christine could almost smell the fresh fruits and foreign condiments in the air.

There was, however, something written on the marge of the pages. Christine slid to the end of the couch; as close to Erik's chair as she was able without having to leave the sofa, but was still unable to see clearly the blurry ink. 

"It is beautiful," she whispered, feeling her breath being taken away by every line on the painting, "did you make those drawings?"

At the nod of his head, she smiled at him, "it is magnificently well-done. You are an incredibly talented artist."

A red color bloomed on the tip of Erik's ears, and his hands lowered the book to turn the page.

Erik's tales continued for hours; his words accompanied by the image on the book creating a flawless picture in the mind of Christine. They were sweet, the tales; funny, and fantastic and so impossible, leaving the blonde woman with the wish to travel again, like when she was a child and her father and her moved to wherever their hearts decided, with the stars themselves as the ceiling over their heads and music as their eternal companion.

Of course, Erik's tales were mainly half-truths. His time in Persia had been filled with blood and death, but his naïve wife could never know that. So instead of the child losing his hand for trying to steal a piece of bread, the baker gave him the whole piece so the child and his family could eat. Some truths were better to not let her hear.

Christine, absorbed on the image that Erik painted on the canvas of her mind as well as on the pages, hardly noticed when exactly did their conversation stopped being strange and awkward. At some point, she had no longer needed to stop to think how to continue the conversation, and instead questions and anecdotes of her own started to form and come from her naturally. This was a detail that Erik did not miss, and that placed an ugly-looking smile full of love on his horrible face.

"It would turn out, my dear, that it was in fact not a cloth at all; it was a great green turtle stuck on the Sultan's bedchamber," Erik concluded the tale, and Christine's merry giggle, coming as freely as her questions and comments, filled the room. Erik could not avoid joining her, even though he didn't found the tale funny or amusing at all.

And Christine found herself surprised by this: she felt comfortable enough with this man to laugh freely, to tell him of her most embarrassing anecdotes and most precious memories, and yet she did not dare to look at his direction. She felt confident enough to brush the pages of the book resting on his arms, but had to fight back the urge to flinch every time his hand moved.

The situation was nowhere near the perfect fairytale she had always dreamt her marriage would be like as a child, but it was acceptable and undoubtedly better than not being able to speak or feel afraid every time she was on the same room as Erik. It was, she found herself concluding, just like when he was nothing but a Voice.

To this, she could get used to: a life filled with tales and past memories instead of new ones. A life lived from the past instead of the present and future. Yes, she could get used to that, as long as Erik remained in his armchair and she remained in the security of her sofa; as long as she was looking at the flames when they spoke; as long as she kept pretending this was only a nice visit to a friend and not a lifetime routine trapped with the only person who remained in the world of the underground.

-0-

 **Author's Note:** hello! Sorry for how long it took me to write this and how terribly short it is! I usually take 9 pages on Google Docs, and this chapter sadly only took 6 and a half. I'm really, really sorry! Also, School's been killing me (and my writing spirit. I feel as such a terrible writer every time I turn in an essay feeling all proud and ready for an A for my Comp. I class and I end up failing. _Again.)_.

I was also not satisfied enough with the result, but hey, at the end, our poor little fav couple is (sort of?) making progress! Y'all see next time;) (If I don't end up changing my plans like I did with this one at last minute haha!)

Anyway, leave a review, please3! (I'm in real need of those right now tbh). 


	8. Chapter 8

**Part VIII: Christine**

Christine woke up from a nightmare just to find that the deafening sound of screams had drilled their way to reality.

She sat in a brusque movement in the darkness, feeling the sweat sliding down her neck and under her clothes, with her hands immediately moving to cover her ears, trying to keep the horrible sound away. Her eyes shut tightly, blocking the dim light of the dying candle away.

The scream stopped just as quickly as it had begun, and with its ending, the realization that she was in her room, alone, and behind a locked door finally settled in her frenetic mind. Her hands slipped away from her ears slowly, tentatively; almost with fear. She could almost feel the echo of the scream, lingering in the air, in the blankets, in the rugs and in the walls.

In her mind, she counted to ten.

 _One, two, three_

It was only a nightmare

 _Four, five, six_

She was alone in the room.

 _Seven, eight, nine_

Nothing could harm her there

 _Ten_

He loved her, and he would never harm her.

The last sentence resonated in her mind louder than any scream.

She left out the air she had not even realized that she was holding, and let her eyes open and her hands to slowly slip away from her head. It had been the same nightmare as the night before: his hands, naked and bloodied, surrounding her neck; her throat so tight that air could no longer pass through it, and then in her desperation she always ripped off his mask, and she always screamed until her lungs could take it no longer, and then it was all black. She never saw his face; her limited mind unable to come with whatever horror he swore laid beyond the mask, but she always screamed. She always saw her own face contorting in repulsion and the most palpable of terrors, but never once seeing the cause of it.

It felt so real that she had almost expected to see the fingerprints on her neck.

Another scream broke the perfectly harmonious silence of the night, and in an instant Christine was on her feet, all thought of the dream gone from her head.

They were Erik's screams. Nothing else on this Earth could ever make such a drilling, maddening noise.

A shot of pure, liquid terror filled her veins as the scream penetrated her mind, and a thousand questions seemed to rush on her head at the same time. What could possibly make a man such as Erik, intimidating and macabre in all his terrifying glory, scream in such desperate and heart-chilling way? What could possibly prey here, in the darkness of the underground?

With trembling fingers and her heart still pounding on her ears, Christine put on some slippers and tightly tied her night robe around her. She rapidly moved to the door, and as another scream started to suffocate the silence of the night, she stopped on her tracks, with the doorknob still tightly grasped between her pale fingers.

She needed something, anything, to defend herself. Outside her bedroom -her space, her sanctuary, and her refuge- anything could happen.

There was nothing useful in that room. Books, bedsheets, a lamp, shoes, clothes, sea shells decorating the shelves and an ugly ostrich egg. Nothing that could help her.

With her mind still rushed and confused, she grabbed a small vase from her bedside table, raising it to the level of her eyes ready to attack as she gathered all her strength to open the door in a quick move.

The screams came from the room at the other end of the hall. The drawing room.

Her pace accelerated until she faced the door of the room, the steps firmer than anything else on her.

"Erik?" Christine called facing the closed door, but the scream only seemed to raise in volume. Her head started to hurt as the noise intensified.

"Erik, are you alright?" She called louder, and tried to open the door. "Erik? Erik? Can you hear me?"

She could almost see him crying and dragging himself across the floor. A shudder ran up her spine and the coldness of the house suddenly seemed to chill her to the bone. With her bare palms she started hitting the door, but the wooden barrier stayed motionless, deaf to her pleas.

"Erik, open the door! Erik!" She yelled. The vase had been forgotten on the floor, and both her hands now tried desperately to enter.

Oh, god, those screams were going to drive her _mad_!

"ERIK!"

And then the scream dropped, and the sudden silence that she had begged for so much, instead of bringing her peace, only increased the constrictive claw around her heart, nearly suffocating the words on her throat.

A few eternal, agonizing moments passed before the weakest of sounds came from the other side if the door:

"...It is alright, Christine," replied Erik's voice, so faint and distant that Christine for a moment did not believe that it could be the same voice that merely hours before had told her about the wonders of the world. It just wasn't Erik's voice; the mellifluous tone gone.

"What happened? I heard your scream from my room," she asked rushed, and tried again to open the door, "could you let me in?"

"Are you worried for your Erik, Christine?" Erik asked, with his weak voice gaining more strength.

"Yes, of course I am worried," she replied quickly, "no one screams in the middle of the night for no reason."

The door opened slightly.

"I am fine," Erik said. Among the complete darkness of his room, Christine could only see Erik's shape, barely touched by the lamp's light that he always left illuminated in the hallway. His eyes glowed in golden.

"Are- Are you sure? What happened?"

"It was just a nightmare, Christine," Erik replied, "Erik often has them."

"…Oh," she said. She was such a fool! Of course it was a nightmare! Hadn't she herself just woken up from one? How could she had completely missed the most obvious of answers? A sudden wave of embarrassment washed over her, feeling foolish for not having thought of that. Her mind always drove her to the wildest of conclusions, and ignored the most logical ones. "I see."

Erik did not answer, but only looked at her. As always, her eyes avoided his, both out of shame and out of awkwardness. Those eyes glowed like fire, and seemed to burn as such. There was a moment of tense silence between the two.

"I... I will leave you to rest, Erik," Christine said, "Goodni-"

"Would you like to hear my newest creation?" Erik blurted out suddenly, and the slightly raised tone of voice alerted Christine of his uneasiness, "I finished it earlier when you went to sleep. It's beautiful, Christine; soft and calm and heart-warming, just the way you like them. Do you want to hear it?"

"It's- It's pretty late, Erik," she babbled, knowing well that the only clock in the house laid forgotten on her vanity table.

His shape moved suddenly, and his ungloved hand came to tightly grasp the doorframe. She flinched almost imperceptibly, and nearly took a step back.

"But it's so beautiful, Christine, you will love it! Just wait and hear! It shall give you pleasant dreams if you listen," he said, his words coming out more rushed than before, "come to the music room, and you can lay on the sofa and I can play for you. Erik can sing for you, too, if you want."

And Christine was about to refuse once again, when a sudden thought crossed her mind.

"Erik," she said, once again not thinking before speaking, "Do you not want to be left alone? Is that it?"

Erik did not answer, but Christine saw how his ugly fingers loosened their hold of the doorframe.

"I do not want to sleep tonight," he admitted in a quiet tone, "too many memories came back to haunt Erik today, and they didn't go away when he closed his eyes."

"Memories...- memories of Persia?" She asked innocently, trying not for the first nor for the last to see beyond his words. He always spoke so much, but she always felt he said so little of what he truly meant. She thought that, perhaps, if she could at least see his face, she might be able to know more, to see beyond his words. But the emotionless mask revealed nothing.

"Yes..." and he said no more.

And as they fell into a tangible silence once again, Christine realized that a man who had travelled so much must have seen too much as well. Her own days of travel were also filled with misery and scarcity, she realized, sometimes eating little, sometimes not eating at all. She remembered some winters spent in a frozen, uncovered or abandoned barn, with nothing but the rotten wood of the walls and her father's arms to shield her from the cold. Some clothes so old and worn out that sometimes her father played his violin for days until a charitable soul would give them a second-hand dress for Christine. Some shoes without laces and a missing piece of the sole. Her father's prominent ribs and cheekbones. Her forever-tangled hair. The dirt under her father's overgrown nails.

Little things that for a little girl who saw the world through the lenses of music and dancing were nothing, but for a father who had to feed and dress a child must have been hell.

"I... I don't want to go to sleep again, either," She said suddenly, surprising the man in the mask as much as herself. "Maybe I should prepare some tea."

And before Erik could answer, Christine slipped away to the kitchen.

: :

She placed a humming cup before Erik.

She had avoided the usual teas, and instead had consciously looked for the herbs in the cabinet –the third to the right, the one with the white spot on its handle- where he stored ingredients whose labels were written with letters that for her looked like nothing but a child's senseless scribbles. She had chosen random herbs, only knowing that they were for tea because of the word being the only one written in French among the sea of Russian and Spanish and Arab and Korean; firmly guided on her choice by her sense of smell. With Erik, even tea was unpredictable, and in that moment she had found the thought comforting.

"Thank you," he said, holding the cup with both hands and raising it to his face, he smelled the tea, but whether he liked the choice or not was completely unknown for Christine. He did not drink it –probably because for that he would have to take his mask off- but Christine thought, perhaps by the way his thin shoulder relaxed or the deep and silent sigh that escaped him, that nonetheless he appreciated it.

When she had entered the room holding the trait with the cups, he had been sitting silently on the piano bench facing the instrument, but his hands, usually glued to the tiles as if they were one, had been carelessly resting on his knees. Now, his head hung slightly, and Christine could not see the glow of his eyes underneath the shadows of his mask. She observed him for a moment, now that the gaslights illuminated more vividly the room, but said nothing. For the first time since she knew him in person, he wore no hat, nor coat, and his white shirt was wrinkled from his sleep, as his neckwear hung messily and loosely from his neck –though she could see that he had tried to fix it while she had been gone. It was the most informal way in which she had ever seen him, and Christine discovered that, without all that black clothing and unnerving, supernaturally perfect look he seemed more… human. More alive. Less The Voice, and more Erik.

"I'm sorry, Erik, if our talk from earlier upset you," Christine finally said, "it was not my intention to bring you back so many unpleasant memories."

Erik chuckled, and once again the sound sent an uncomfortable shiver down her back.

"It is of no importance, my dear wife; I truly enjoyed our talk today," Erik said, "Erik would have had nightmares regardless of the topic of conversation."

And somehow, his perpetually charming, mellifluous voice suddenly seemed empty. The sudden humanity she had seen not a moment earlier had transformed into the deepest of burdens, and the glow in black pools of his mask glowed with nothing but tiredness, like a dying gaslight that it's giving its last effort not to extinguish.

He looked ancient.

"Erik, what is your age?" Christine asked, still standing near the bench and with both her hands holding her own cup.

"My age?" he asked, with his head never raising, and a gloom chuckle escaped his throat, "what does it matter, Erik's age? Forty, perhaps. Undoubtedly not more than fifty. Fifty years walking this Earth would be too, too much."

"You don't know your own age?" she asked, incredulous, "but surely you must know your birthday. Have you lost count of your own springs?"

"No, no, my dear; no springs for Erik. Only winters," he said, and a slight sigh made the veil of his mask move, "I don't know my birthday, either, because no one ever cared to tell when it is."

"And your mother, Erik? What about her?" Christine asked, insistently. She scarcely remembered Erik telling her something about his mother -something to do with the furniture on the Louis-Philippe room, perhaps- during the night of their wedding. It was a little piece of blurry memory; the details too unimportant at that moment seeing what she thought would happen just after their little tour ended.

Right now, she wished she had paid more attention to him.

"Why would Erik's poor mother care to remember the day that ruined her life?" he murmured, and another dark chuckle crept out his throat, "some tragedies are better forgotten, dear."

Once again, the newlyweds fell into silence. The man on the bench looked pathetically at the insides of his cup, as his bare thumb silently and absently caressed the burning porcelain. His long, thin back was crouched, and his forearms supported his weight over his thighs.

Christine merely observed him, feeling sorry for the poor man. She knew so little of him, and yet the sadness, the tiredness, the _weight_ he carried sometimes seemed so great that even in her ignorance she could feel it in her own shoulders as well.

Without saying a word, Christine sat by her husband's side. He finally raised his head to look at her; doubt clear on his eyes.

"I had a nightmare as well," Christine murmured, shattering the silence in the room, and answering the unspoken question, "but I now see that it was silly."

And truly, she did. It was beyond silly now, at the light of the gaslight, to think that he –her husband, her mentor, her protector, the man who observed his cup of tea as if it could drown him- would harm her in such a way. It was a stupid, silly nightmare, and nothing else. Her mind was just too tired and the eternal cold and darkness of the cellars were simply starting to plant senseless fears in her vulnerable state of sleep.

Christine raised her cup of tea to her lips, with her eyes fixed in the shining, black and white tiles of the piano.

"Erik did that," he stated in a tone that she could not decipher. A gaunt and crooked finger pointed towards her.

Her eyes, lingering perhaps a second longer than appropriate on the ghastly appearance of the appendage, followed the path it signaled.

The red marks of the same dead fingers that now trembled with sorrow started to become a purple against the pure white of her arm.

"Ah, it's nothing," she said, and, holding her cup with only one hand, tried to fix her sleeve to hide the marks from their sight, but the long, loose sleeves kept falling back, revealing again the terrible evidence of the crime. At the third attempt, Christine gave up. "It is truly nothing, Erik. We already talked about it, remember? We forgive each other," she insisted, trying to give him the most reassuring smile and sweetest of tones, and though her voice and expression showed what she wished they would, for both Erik and her sake, the ridiculous image of her dream flashed on her mind for a moment.

She just hoped that her eyes would not betray her. The Voice had always been able to read her as an open book.

However, if Erik saw any sort of lie in her eyes, he said nothing. He just looked at her for a moment, his eyes scanning her in the close proximity of an arm's length that they had not shared under the exposing light since the night of their wedding, when the all-seeing eyes of God and the sightless eyes of men had been witness of their empty words of love.

And then, without saying a word, he stood up, placed his cup on the piano lid, and left the room. After a few minutes of absence, Christine was about to go after him when the scrawny figure appeared once more on the entrance of the room, holding a wooden box in his hands.

He sat once again on the bench, and Christine thought that perhaps he had gotten slightly farther away.

Erik positioned the wooden box on his lap and opened its lid. It was filled with small crystal bottles, as strange and unrecognizable for Christine as the languages on his books or the teas on his cabinets. He extracted one of the bottles and opened it. He extended his hand towards her.

"Let me see," Erik commanded.

She obediently extended her hand without saying a word.

His large, skinny hand cupped hers slightly, and she noticed that, for the first time, his flesh was not as cold as the dead. It was warm, lively warm; probably because of the burning tea he had held with the desperation of a child. His other hand moved away the sleeve of the night robe to once again reveal the ugly, swollen flesh. The tip of his long fingers dipped in the content of the bottle, and gently rubbed the unknown, gray-colored substance over the wound. It smelled ghastly, but the fresh sensation on her skin was a relief.

"This will help with the pain and color," he said, his eyes not leaving the task his fingers worked on, "apply this each night before going to sleep and each morning after waking up."

"I will," she answered.

"Christine," he called, his eyes still not looking at hers, "never come near Erik when he has nightmares. Sometimes they can be so real, that Erik does not see fiction and reality apart. I do not want to think what could have happened if the door had not been locked earlier. Please, I beg of you, for your own sake, do not come near Erik. I do not want ever to harm you again."

He released the slight hold of her hand, but made no move to break the contact of their bare hands. It was the first time he had consciously touched her skin without the restrictive leather of his gloves.

To her infinite surprise, she found that she did not loath the sensation as much as she thought she would. Yet, not loathing something is still far away from enjoying it, and she slowly slipped her hand away. She ignored the sigh that escaped him as his hand, still held in the same position, closed around the empty air where her own hand had rested just moments before.

"I shall not interfere next time, I promise. Thank you, Erik, for taking care of me," she said softly, with a gentle smile grazing her lips, trying to make as painless as possible her silent rejection, "Would you now play for me? I wish to sing for you once more. "

Playing for her. Singing for him. Music. For any other man, the idea that music was all she could ever truly love of him, and that it would forever be the only thing she could ever give him fully, would be maddening. But Erik was no ordinary man.

Behind the mask, an unnaturally crooked and terrible smile appeared as the first notes of a melody left what little he had of lips. 

-0-

 **Author's note:** I'm sorry this took _so_ long! I usually don't publish a chapter unless I have at least completed half of the next chapter, so I wouldn't let you waiting that long, but after considering the first version of this chapter, I decided to move it all for later on in the story (a few chapters only, if not the next!)

So I had to start from zero! This whole chapter was initially planned to be a mere mention thrown randomly while Christine remembered it (no more than two paragraphs –and y'all know how short my paragraphs tend to be!), but I realized that it was better to show the whole development rather than just mention it!

But whatever, what did y'all think of this chapter:)? Was it worth the waiting? I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a pretty, pretty review! I eat those with raspberry marmalade for breakfast!

Oh, and THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the lovely comments and support I received in the last chapter! Y'all are the best!


	9. Chapter 9

**Part IX: Erik  
**

 ****Erik awoke earlier than he had planned, after reluctantly having forced himself to sleep the night before. He had slept for the last time four days ago, when Christine had awoken him from a nightmare –Oh, he would have a thousand more of those horrible, maddening nightmares if the reward was her soft words of worry, her calming presence beside him, and her precious hand on top of his!-, so in truth he wasn't that tired yet, but the few hours of sleep he had forced his body to have had been refreshing. He turned on his coffin once and again, closing his eyes and trying to force his mind to shut up and for his face to relax to try to sleep again. It was completely useless. The stupid grin would simply not leave him. But oh, how could it? How could he stop smiling when his dream was so, so close to be completely fulfilled?

Not being able to stay still a second longer, he got out of the coffin and went to have a bath. He could do nothing else: he could not read because his mind wandered, he could not compose because his dear Christine -dear, dear, lovely Christine! Ah, just to think of her name made bubbles of the sweet laugh that only a man in love could make flourish on his chest!- was sleeping, and he did not want to disturb her. She needed all her energy for the day that awaited them!

Once on his bathroom, he filled the tub with warm water, adding some of his stronger smelling lotions. He scrubbed his thin, ugly body until it became red and small pieces of dead skin fell off; all the while the foolish grin stuck on his half-lips. He had to smell especially good for her today! ****

He got out of the bath and, after drying himself and wrapping the towel around his waist, went to the sink. He rested his hands on the edge, and looked at the plain, gray wall in front of him, where a mirror should stand, and smiled even more brightly as a sigh of love left him and his terrible eyes shined at the thought of his wife -what a sweet, wonderful word!-. He passed a hand over the cracked wall, erasing the vapor that had not formed on the mirror that did not exist. He took the razor blade and started shaving his perpetually hairless face; not even flinching when the blade made cut on his skin by mistake. He splashed water over his face and dried it, passing his hand over his cheekbones -never below, where the fingertips would sink on his hollow cheeks and the spell would be broken-, admiring his work as he angled his head in different directions, staring at the wall as if the handsome face he was denied since birth were looking back at him.

He started humming as he applied lotion to his terrible face. His sensitive skin started burning, as it always did. He dried the excess of blood dripping all the way to his jaw, and moved on. The smile never left him.

He carefully put on his wig and combed its false hair in front of the invisible mirror. He put on his false nose and mustache, and slightly cut the non-existent excess of hairs of the mustache and waxed it.

It were the simple things like those that raised, even a little bit, his self-esteem. He felt strong, masculine; powerful, even, whenever he was able to do something as simple as shaving like any other man could. Who cared if he needed some... adjustments? Or if it was evidently unnecessary and harming for his thin skin? Or if he had to buy another false mustache only to end up cutting its "excess of hairs" again? Today, it didn't matter. Today, his dreams were finally coming true.

He left the bathroom feeling refreshed. Glancing at his golden pocket watch, he realized it was later than he had thought it to be. He had spent too much time on his bath, trying to make sure he was even more impeccable than of usual; all for her.

With that distorted, smug grin disgracing his ugly face behind his perfect mask, he walked towards Christine's room, taking a moment to take a deep breath and make sure everything was alright. His shoes were polished, yes. His gloves were new, yes. His pocket watch had not a single dirty spot, and his deep green cravat was adorned with his favorite pin -if he considered himself superstitious, which he was definitely not, he would even call it his "lucky pin"… it was the one he wore the day he proposed, and the day he got married, after all-. He fixed his waistcoat and hat and cleared his perfect voice before gently knocking on her beloved wife's door.

He felt like such a child; as if they were a couple of young teens courting, and not man and wife. At least he would not have to face the disapproving father in the middle of that awkward silence while he waited for his beloved to come downstairs, while the mother, enchanted with his politeness and the beautiful flower the handsome young man had brought for her daughter, commented on senseless things that the young suitor couldn't care less about. And his lack of interest did not come from any lack of manners; oh, no, it came all from the father's stare, who had taken and shaken his hand with all his strength, and he had _obviously_ squeezed just as hard. It was a game of dominance, of course, and Erik wasn't going to let himself be intimidated by any man –not even the one who had given life to the girl he loved- when it came to the object of his affections.

At least, that's how Erik thought things were when courting a lady. He had never done it, nor seen anyone done it either, but he'd heard the stories and had had plenty of lonely nights to fantasize about it.

"Christine, my dear, are you awake?" he asked gently, knowing well that his pretty little wife enjoyed to sleep until late. Such a waste of time! But he had once heard La Sorelli say that women needed to sleep much, because that was their secret for beauty. He laughed bitterly when he had first heard it, thinking that, if he had been a woman, perhaps he could have slept for weeks straight until his horrible face resembled, well, a _face._

It took a few moments before he heard a soft, sleepy –and perhaps a little irritated?- reply coming from the other side of the door.

"Yes, Erik, are you in need of something?"

He could hardly manage to bottle up his excitement. His hand twitched and twisted the cloth of his coat in anticipation.

"I need you to prepare," he said, feeling the anxiousness bubbling on his chest like boiling water, threatening to suffocate the words before they left him. His toes curled inside his shoes. "Today we are going to church."

He heard the sound of movement at the other side of the door, and before he could knock again and ask if everything was alright, Christine opened the door so quick that his hand stood there frozen in the middle of the air.

"Do you speak the truth, Erik? Are we truly going out? Are we truly going to church?" the precious angel asked, with her beautiful voice filled with an excitement that mirrored the one he himself felt.

"Yes, my dear, it is true. Meet me at the entrance whenever you are ready," he said gently before reluctantly leaving her to prepare. He did not want to leave the presence of his beautiful wife, who had blessed him with the most marvelous sight he had ever seen. She had been so… _indecent, vulnerable,_ and, dare he think without his perverted mind betraying him, _bare,_ with her thin night gown leaving too little and yet so much to the imagination –Erik's face under the mask burned at the thought, and he quickly averted his eyes before that little, evil voice in his head told him that he had no reason to stop looking…-. Such a sight that a woman would never give to any other man but to her _husband_. And Christine had given it to _him_. She had not even wore a robe on top of her camisole like the last time! No slippers on her feet! No ties on her hair! Just _her_.

Oh, god, not even out of the house yet and a dream he did not even knew he had was already granted! Such a marvelous, _perfect_ day!

Lost in his fantasies, he waited for her at the door, until finally his wife came, proudly wearing a dark blue dress that he had given her as one of the wedding gifts. Her hair was tied back in a modest style –much to his disappointment, for he decided right there on the spot that he preferred her long, curly, golden hair when it fell down her shoulders and back-, and on her feet she wore a pair of shoes that matched her dress; also given to her as a gift. Around her neck shone the golden locket, and, just to make it even more perfect, his wedding ring graced her finger.

"You look astounding," he said, though whether he referred to her appearance of that moment, or of this morning, or of yesterday, or of the day he met her, he did not know. It didn't matter. Whatever she wore or did or spoke was unbelievably beautiful! Such a precious angel!

The smile with the dimple and the wrinkled nose was his only answer, and his heart skipped a beat, ignorant to the fact that the kind words were not at all the reason for her happiness. She was going to be _free_.

"Shall we go, then?" Christine asked, and Erik politely opened the door for her. At the other side of the door, darkness waited. Because of strategically placed, though dim, sources of light and his keen vision, Erik could see more than a normal man would be able to, and what he saw before him, at the other side of the door, was not pleasant. So much darkness, humidity, and endless labyrinths. It was not a place for a lady –it was hardly place for living men!- to ever wander alone.

He considered for a moment if perhaps he should just sing to her. That way, she would be calm, and he would have no risk of her ever trying to leave… -

 _Leave_? Why would she ever try to _leave_ , if not with her loving husband at her side? Silly, silly Erik for thinking such things!

Yet the doubt had been planted.

"Christine, wait," he said before she could step outside, "I need to know if I can trust you to know the way."

"Of course you can trust me, Erik," she said, and even he noticed that she looked slightly taken aback at his question. Silly Erik, indeed! Husbands and wives trusted each other! And yet he had been holding his breath without even realizing it.

"Good, good," he said, feeling more relieved than he should be, "because what I told you on our wedding night was not a lie, Christine: there are too many dangers in this place. It's so great that getting lost could cost you your life. You shall never try to wander around on your own, is that understood?"

And as he said those words, her eyes returned to the blackness at the other side of the threshold. The small quiver at the corner of her mouth told him what her words did not. The little movement of her brow, however, was invisible for him. She hated to receive his orders.

"Come on," he said, and after stepping outside of the house, he offered his arm for her. She crossed the entrance, and glanced around her –as if the dear girl would be able to see anything, when even Erik could hardly see a thing- before her hand was firmly placed at the crook of his inner elbow. He shivered.

They walked in silence for a short time, Erik's mind concentrated on the task of guiding them. Then, Christine's little voice found its way among the silence:

"Erik," she called softly, as if the she did not want to disturb the silence of the tunnels, "Do you think it was the Siren what caused M. Nadir to almost drown the day he came visiting?"

'Visiting' was not exactly the Daroga's intention that day. He had come down thinking Erik had kidnapped his own wife, ready to blame Erik of atrocious deeds as if he were a monster! That old Persian man always thinking the worst of Erik…

"Erik thinks the Daroga only got what he deserved. He came alone and uninvited to our honeymoon, and entered the Siren's lake as if he had any right. I have always told him that the Siren is always ready to be fed, and yet he does not listens to reason…"

Christine did not answer, but through their joined arms Erik was able to feel her shuddering. Poor Christine, always shivering. The cellars were truly cold.

In short, they were facing the Rue Scribe entrance; the sunlight entering from under the invisible door. In a quick move, Erik opened the entrance and, before he could say or do anything else, Christine's slight pressure on his arm disappeared, as the woman slipped outside. As she rejoiced on the feeling of sunlight on her skin –and even gave a few small turns in an adorable, childlike manner- Erik observed her: she was radiant, with her wild golden hair shining in the light of day, and her face showing the beautiful but so rare smile with the dimple, only highlighted even more by the precious sound of her laughter. It was an image so precious and bright that its sight could blind a man, and yet, said man would not miss his eyes, for he would have had seen the most beautiful sight to behold, and nothing else left to see would ever begin to compare.

He could have stayed there forever, only watching in silence how the woman smiled and laughed like a little girl, lost in her happiness, but sadly, the prominent weight of his pocket watch reminded him that they had somewhere to go –to where exactly, was a detail too unimportant compared to the pink of her lips, curled into the perfect smile he loved.

"Christine," he called, "We will be late. We must hurry."

She turned around and smiled. He couldn't help correspond the gesture.

Outside of the Rue Scribe, Erik had a carriage already waiting. He gently opened the door for her, and was about to give her his hand to help her enter the carriage when the sudden memory of the night of their wedding, when the poor woman had jerked off her hand away from his, appeared in his head. It was a silly thought to have after how he had held her hand just a few nights before, he knew. Yet, he still did not offer it to her. Just in case.

Once inside the carriage, he sat in front of her, and observed her sit closer to the window as she observed through the eyes of a curious child everything at the other side of the glass. Her enthusiasm was such that at times she couldn't refrain herself from commenting on something that she saw or that she remembered from a certain location. She looked so happy and at comfort with him that he wished that every day were always Sunday.

The newlyweds got down in front of a church. Just like Erik had wanted it, mass had already started, and the street was empty of crowds. It was a small church, of course, though not nearly as simple as the one in which they had gotten married –today, Erik didn't care that the priest could wonder about his mask-, and as they discretely entered, they sat alone at the corner of the last bench.

As Erik watched from the corner of his eye how Christine murmured a prayer and how a sweet smile appeared on her face, he, who was never the religious man, closed his eyes as well and silently thanked this moment to whatever God heard him.

By the time the ceremony ended, Christine seemed relaxed, at peace, even; though the spark of enthusiasm was still shining in the depth of her blue eyes. She spoke softly to him of how beautiful and cozy the church was and he commented that the chorus had significally improved since the last time he had come –which had been over a decade before, though he did not add that part- until the crowds had receded and they were able to leave without much trouble.

He loved that they spoke so casually now. She didn't smile or laugh as often as he wished she would –he was, to be fair, not a great comedian. Their sense of humor was… different, to say the least, but that had never been a problem before when he was only a voice… He wondered what could possibly be different now-, but every day after the one in which their Persian "friend" had come, they had sat down in the same position for a while, with him in his lonely arm chair and her so infinitely far away from him in a large couch just a meter away from his. They talked about senseless and trivial things, and that was what he loved the most: the simplicity of it all. _What do you want to eat? I think we need to buy more carrots. I'm reading a really interesting book; you might like it. I saw a big spider on my room last night._

And even though sometimes one of them would run out of things to say, a shared silence felt so much better than the suffocating silence of the loneliness. Because now it wasn't silence at all: it was her breathing, the shuffle of her skirts, the movement of her feet, the sip of her cup, or the turning of pages. Just _her._ So much _her._

That was, of course, until for some reason she would always excuse herself and move to another room, with some petty excuse that might have fool Erik the first two or three times, but eventually not even a lovesick man like him could think of it normal. Perhaps women just needed more… space? Time? Privacy? Clothes? Make up? His soul? Who knew? They were such a walking, breathing, and seductive mystery for a man like Erik.

"Are you hungry, my dear? You did not have breakfast," Erik commented after having left the church behind at a respectable distance. In all the seven days they had been married, Christine had woken up either with a hot breakfast already at the table, or with Erik preparing it already for her, but today they had left too late and he had had no time to prepare anything for her. "There is a very nice cafeteria a few streets away."

"I would very much like breakfast, but not right now," she said smiling, and Erik did not notice how her muscles seemed to tense slightly. He never did, anyway. "But would you mind a walk first? I feel like it has been so long since I last took one, and there is a beautiful park near if I'm not mistaken."

The words left Erik breathless.

" _Walk_?" he gasped, "a walk… on _Sunday_? _You are asking Erik for a walk on Sunday?_ " he asked, the words hardly coming out of him at all.

"Yes… a walk," Christine answered, suddenly unsure at the strange reaction of her husband to the proposition, "It's… It's a lovely day."

"Indeed, it is, is it not? It is such a perfect, beautiful day!" Erik exclaimed, filled with infinite joy, as the bubbling chuckle –which unnerved his wife so much- escaped him. He hesitated only a small second before offering his arm to her, and Christine hesitated only another small second before taking it lightly. The contact sent shiver up his whole arm, followed by a pleased sigh that left all the tension on his body leave his poor muscles.

They would have to work on those small gestures, Erik thought as he happily started to walk with his wife at his side; it just couldn't be that his first instinct always yelled at him to shake off his wife's blessed touch all the time. Especially knowing how much he craved it, and how little she hesitated every time he asked for it. He hoped one day she would not only not hesitate, but also _initiate_ it... it was alright for now, though; she would one day love him.

As they moved down the street side by side, with no worries or hurries, Erik took in his surroundings: a nearly empty long street, and at its end the gates of the park Christine talked about. He had never gone, since his journeys above ground rarely ever were for fun… also, as much as it pained him to think of it in that moment, when he felt so _normal_ , he knew how a man in a mask, sitting alone in a bench in a park full of families and children, must look for passersby. It was an uncomfortable enough experience that he had sadly had too many times to last for a lifetime.

But not today. Today, he was taking his _family_ as well. Today he was not a lonely, strange man with a weird nose that didn't really _fit_ his face somehow sitting in a bench in the shadows, observing life take course but never actually living it. Today, he was a proud newlywed taking his beautiful bride to church, like every good husband should, and then going for a nice walk. He was being such a good husband he could hardly believe he was not dreaming. His poor heart could surely not handle all the happiness that _this_ being real would bring him.

When they finally reached the park, it was nearly as empty as the streets, but he paid no attention. It didn't matter, after all: this was _his_ –no, _their_ \- date, and he didn't need the world to see it. Though it was a shame, truly, to see how beautiful his wife was and there was nobody around to admire it but him.

Just as the thought formed in his mind, a young couple passed a few meters in front of them, linked by the arm. He observed them by the corner of his eye, thanking his terrible mask –which was making his raw skin itch and hurt- for the privacy it gave him. The woman was pretty, with her black hair tied up and her elegant movements; she was perhaps a bit taller than her husband, and her pink-ish dress fit her preciously. Erik quickly wondered if he was still allowed to look at other women and admire their beauty in such an unashamed manner now that he was married. He surely wouldn't like for Christine to look at other men, though he could hardly blame her for that if she did. He knew he had nothing she could look at and not cause her distress.

He shook the thought off as he moved his sight to the man. He was tall, slender, elegant and handsome, and the woman at his side looked at him with the tender spark of love as he spoke, hugging to her chest rather than merely taking his arm. Erik looked down to his own linked arm, and saw the weak, barely-there touch of Christine's petite hand. He took her hand and accommodated her hold on his arm better, and gently patted her fingers, feeling their wedding rings clash at the movement. Christine said nothing; she was looking at some flowers or something.

Erik continued to look.

The man was elegantly dressed, though not nearly as much as Erik was. He had a spot on one of his shoes, and his hat was crooked. Erik wondered if Christine had noticed that he had taken extra time today to look the best he could, even if that is not much saying. He had even applied a strong, new cologne –he had heard, though admitting it hurt his pride, that the Opera Ghost smelled… bad. That had not let him sleep well that night. What if that was the reason Christine did not get as near to him? The last time they had been this close had been the night he had a nightmare, and, knowing how good-hearted his Christine was, if she smelled something that bothered her, she surely didn't say it to not hurt his feelings. That's how sweet and considerate she was to people.

But today she didn't seem to have much trouble being around. He would have to use cologne more often.

There was, however, one thing that filled Erik's narrow chest of a strange sense of superiority: the fingers of the other couple were bare. They were not married. The other man did not know the blessings of the marital life like Erik did. The other man did not wake up each morning knowing that his beloved slept just a few meters away. The other man had never been granted the beauty of the image of a woman in the morning; vulnerable and defenseless and blindly trusting.

The other man, with his handsome face and his real nose and his true hair naturally growing on his head, knew nothing.

Perhaps Erik's stare truly was as strong as people said, because suddenly the man looked up in his direction. If the sight of the masked man creeped him out, he didn't show it, and instead politely inclined his head and slightly lifted his hat from his head in a well-mannered greeting towards Erik and his wife. Erik, excited, returned the gesture, and happily ignored how the _companion_ of the other man visibly palled –and almost fainted- at the look of his mask.

He was too happy to care. He was married, and he was taking a walk with his wife as all the other married couples did.

A small knot formed on his throat at the thought.

"This is a truly beautiful park," Christine commented casually once the couple continued their walk, "Perfect for families and children."

"Yes," Erik said, feeling the knot tightening. This was real. He was truly, _truly_ here. He moved his gloved hand to rest on top of hers, and once again the clashing of the rings, shining as one under the sunlight, reminded him that this was not a dream."Perfect for a family, like you and I, my dear wife, like you and I!"

"Yes," she answered, ignoring her husband's hand on top of hers, and his sudden strange tone. They were having such a normal conversation before. "I brought some of the littlest ballet girls here once. They were running everywhere, and I almost lost Little Jammes."

His thumb started rubbing her fingers, while his eyes started to fill of tears. He was so, so happy he could cry!

He was, in truth, so happy that he didn't notice how Christine tensed visibly at his tender, innocent ministrations.

"One of the girls fell from the tree over there," she continued, absently pointing to the tree she was referring to and looking-without-seeing it. She almost stumbled over her own words. Something was wrong with Erik, and for the love of God she couldn't understand _what_ could that be. "She only scrapped her knee, thankfully. It would have been terrible if she had broken something, since she-"

She was interrupted by a small sob that Erik couldn't hold back anymore. He was drowning in his own tears because of the stupid mask. Thank God he had decided to take off his false nose –which would have been useless under the mask anyway- at the last minute. A desperate attempt at feeling normal could have caused him a serious problem and risk of suffocation.

"Erik?" Christine called, quickly turning her head to look at him.

Tears ran down his skinny neck, and his free hand had gone to his mask to make sure it wouldn't slip off. Curse his almost flat, noseless face!

"Erik! Whatever's wrong? Are you feeling alright? What is the matter?" She asked, and her grip on his arm tightened when his body trembled as he sobbed.

He wept harder, but he refused to let his weak knees give up on him. He was not going to fall down to his knees here, where everyone could see them. He would embarrass his Christine!

"Oh, Christine," he choked out, lowly enough for no other ears besides Christine's to listen, "Nothing is wrong! Nothing, nothing is the matter! Nothing can ever be the matter!"

Christine's hold on his arm only tensed more. She quickly looked around for a nearby bench, and took her poor Erik to sit. She sat so near beside him that, when she turned on her seat to face him, the hem of her dress covered the front of his shoes.

"If nothing is wrong, Erik, why are you crying? Is it something I said?" she asked in an equally hushed tone. Once they sat, her hand didn't leave him, but its strong hold lessened. Sweet Christine, always so compassionate to everyone, even to a monster like him!

"No, dear, no! It is just –it is just that Erik is married!" Erik said, as if the poor, confused girl could have any idea of why was that something to be bringing up _now_ , seven days after their wedding.

"And does that brings you such sorrow that you must cry?" She asked, confusion clear on her furrowed brow.

"Sorrow? _Sorrow?_ No, no sorrow! No sorrow at all! It is happiness, Christine, the purest of happiness Erik has ever felt in his life! Ah, Christine! Erik is married! Erik is finally, truly married! Erik has told you stories and you have laughed at his joked –just a little, just a little!-, he has entertained you and taken you to church and is now taken a stroll on Sunday! With you, my beautiful Christine, with you! Can anything else ever compare to this, my love? Can it?"

"Oh, Erik," Christine whispered, "It's alright, husband; please, do not cry."

She raised a tentative hand to his shoulder, and squeezed a little. She felt nothing but cloth and bones.

His vision blurred under the pressure of more tears ready to be shed, but instead, in a quick movement that startled them both, he buried the hard surface of his mask on the divine crook of her neck.

She smelled like roses, just like he had always imagined she would.

Even through the material, the skeletal man felt his poor wife tense at his unexpected action, but his cursed and blessed selfishness forbid him to let her go. She was his wife, and they were _friends_.

His knees brushed her dress and no part of their skins touched. It was yet so intoxicating that he didn't know if his lack of breath came from his weeps, or from her nearness. She said nothing while her husband cried on her neck, wetting clothes and skin below; and his fingers tightly gripped the material of his trousers over his knees.

Her hand didn't leave his shoulder, but the other laid lifelessly over the blue of her skirts.

"I am sorry, my wife," he said, raising his head and turning around to be able to slip his hands under his mask and clean all traces of tears from the holes of his eyes. "Erik is ruining our family stroll with his silliness. But he is just so happy! I am so happy! I have a family now: you. Ah! And once your dear mother is well, we must bring her too! She is Erik's family as well!"

Christine, visibly surprised by his sudden change of mood, blinked twice before an insecure smile appeared on her face. "Of course, Erik. My mamma would be very glad to get to know you more."

"Ah! You think? She was truly nice with me the night I met her," he said. The overwhelming happiness was still fresh and blooming on his chest, but it did not overflow anymore.

"She has… a good impression of you," Christine said, and she averted her eyes, "I had already talked to her about you, and about our lessons. I mean, before we got… engaged."

"Well then, it is even more of a reason to get to know her better. I would very much like to meet the woman who raised such a perfect angel as yourself, my dear," Erik said, smiling behind the mask. She could not avoid smiling back to the expressionless mask. "I am sure she must have the most thrilling anecdotes of little Christine when growing up, which I would not miss for the world! Which also reminds me, my dear, that a stroll on Sunday cannot be taken while sitting down."

He stood up and offered his arm once more to her. She giggled a little before gracefully raising from her seat and taking his arm.

This time, he did not need to fix her grip of his arm.

-0-

 **Author's Note:** Small reminder (especially at the beginning of the chapter) that my Erik is not fully well in the head, and that Leroux Erik definitely had some serious self-harming habits (such as not eating or sleeping for long periods of time), and I'm sure those are not the only ones. Here's my take in some others he might have had.

Btw, have I ever mentioned how much I LOVE to write Erik's chapters? They are so challenging for me because of Erik's twisted logic, quick change of mood, and obliviousness to Christine's feelings, and that makes me love them more:) I just hope it's not too tedious to read!

Anyway, please don't forget to leave a lovely, beautiful review! Those truly make my days! I loooove to hear your thoughts, concerns, recommendations, questions, etc!;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Part X: Christine**

Erik was a like a constant blizzard of emotions, never knowing from where would it hit. Rage and happiness and love and fear and sadness all at the same time blending and twisting around each other, coming merciless at you without giving you time to shelter from the storm. Although Christine was slowly getting used to the man –at least, she didn't flinch anymore every time Erik appeared unexpectedly somewhere she could swear he hadn't been a moment before-, his constant mood swings left her completely tired and confused beyond her mind most of the time.

And they had only been married _a_ _week_.

This morning, for example, Christine had been jumping out of her skin with happiness and excitement at the prospect of finally leaving that suffocating house –and do not mistake her, it was a lovely house, and she had had some… interesting shared time for the last seven days with Erik, but a golden cage was still a cage-, then, before she could blink, she was worried out of her mind because Erik was crying. Oh, god, how she hated seeing him cry. It reminded her of _that_ night –his screams and his tears and his head banging against the piano over and over again, until his hat fell off and her ears seemed to hear nothing but his weeps. And her guilt. All of that because of a foolish mistake. _Her_ mistake- and, against her will, it always led to wonder what could possibly be behind that mask.

All she knew was that it was so _terrible_ that it deeply disturbed the poor man, and she told herself that that was enough for her to never question it again. But she was human, and humans were curious creatures, and her mind made sure she never forgot about that.

But again, she would not ask. She would never ask; not when she knew how much it _wrecked_ him. But she pitied him. She truly, truly pitied him.

In their scarce seven days of marriage, they had spent most of their time in what she felt was an awkward silence only lightly interrupted by sporadic small talk –until she couldn't handle it anymore and had to flee the room like a puppy with its tail between its legs- and what he felt was bliss. They've talked about normal things, and their respective pasts before the Opera had come up a few times. He never said much. A travel here, a new language there. A painting of a lake in Russia and the architectural plan of a building that was never made. A song, a poem. Nothing much. Never "mother" or "father." Never "I grew up in…" or "When I was a boy I…"

And yet, in what little he had said, Christine had been able to recognize the palpable presence of melancholy and loneliness. It was odd, she thought; his voice never changed, and his eyes and face were hidden by the perfect satin mask, but she could nonetheless _see_ and _hear_ the pain. It filled her with so much unexpected –and hopefully unjustified- pity.

It was that same pity which had made her allow him to rest his terribly uncomfortable and hard mask against the crook of her neck when he cried, feeling the slightly crooked nose digging into her skin. Her hand had squeezed slightly his shoulder in a feeble, pathetic attempt to bring physical comfort without actually having to touch him more than the strictly necessary –a very cruel action, she knew, but she just… _couldn't_ -. She was grateful his hands had stayed on his knees. With his yellowish neck so close to her nose, the smell of death had become evident again; it had been so fully camouflaged by the spicy cologne he wore, that only now did she remember how he truly smelled.

And now, as they walked side by side again, and with all traces of tears gone except the wet spot on her collar, she couldn't help but feel disappointed. For a moment, it had been a true fantasy. In the morning, she had been trembling with excitement as she bathed with the rose oils that she thought he liked –and though the idea of doing it to please _Erik_ had made her foot bounce in suppressed anxiety and the red leave completely her face, the idea of doing it for her _husband_ didn't sound as awful, as strange as that may sound seeing that, in fact, her husband and Erik were one and the same-; had gone to church and prayed with her husband; had taken a nice walk under the sun linked by the arm like any other couple. And in all that time, she felt normal, like every other wife. Then he had _cried_ as no husband did. It was a sudden and hard reminder that in truth, Erik was not like any other husband.

As if wanting another slap of reality, Christine looked up to Erik, her neck having to arch to allow her to see his mask. Only now, with light surrounding them, did she notice that he was dressed in a dark blue suit, the color much like the one she herself wore except slightly darker. She had thought it to be black; she had thought he only ever wore black. He wore a new hat and new gloves. His shoes were immaculately polished. His voice –rambling about dinner for tonight- showed a merriness that completely hid the fact that he had been crying mere minutes before. He stood tall with his back straight as he looked forward.

That last part was what intrigued her the most. It was a curious thing that Christine had noticed the first few days of marriage, but that she had had no way of proving before: outside their house, Erik stood in all his intimidating height, with his chin up and his movements firm and without hesitation when it came to her, but when they were alone in their house, Erik seemed to retreat to himself. His back curved, diminishing slightly the astonishing height difference between the two –right now, as Christine smiled timidly at one of his probably-jokes, the top of her head did not even reach his shoulder-, and his hands eternally fiddled with a thread on his gloves or with his own fingers. Whenever her shy husband approached her while she was reading or knitting, or came to knock at her door, he always seemed so… awkward in his own skin. His long limbs seemed to not know their place.

But right now, he walked with the confidence of a king. Not even his slight caresses to her fingers trembled, so unlike the other night, when his skin had touched her for the first time and she had been able to feel the tremble of his muscles as his fingers eased the pain of her injured arm.

Erik also wore the white mask. It allowed for nothing to be revealed, except for his neck and ears, which glowed in an innocent pink at her nearness as the only proof that her timid husband was still hidden under the layers of confidence he showed in daylight.

She tried to not think too much of that mask, which sometimes consumed her mind to the point of nearly reaching obsession before Christine could lock those betraying thoughts away. Christine tried to force her own mind to believe that it was his face, and it had worked splendidly until the tears came. It was a ridiculous thought, she knew, but whenever she thought that, in truth, _anyone_ could be placed in her husband's place and it would not alter her vision… it just made her stomach knot. What she once thought comforting now only flooded her with an uncomfortable feeling of doubt: her husband had a face; _yes,_ that was a fact that she no longer denied or hid under to protect herself from reality, but it was not the face of Erik. It was a blank canvas ready to be painted, not too different from when she was a child and played tea party with "her husband" –that adorable little blond boy- and used the marmalade jar covered in a blanket to pretend it was a baby to play mommy and daddy.

It was so strange that the longer she thought of it, the less their quiet conversations on their sofas; their shared, sacred and secret music; their reading time or their shared space mattered: they were still complete strangers, hid at the other side of the perfect, impenetrable barrier of the mask. It was almost funny how a week before the fact was not only comforting, but almost _empowering_ , and now it only made her feel… ah, she didn't even know how it made her feel. Awkward, perhaps?

At this moment, however, they were a normal couple taking a normal Sunday stroll. No passerby would ever guess that they'd only met in person for a week; that she believed him to be a Voice –whatever that meant at this point-; that she now lived underground; that her husband swore there was a monster living in their lake; that she had never shared a bed with her husband; that he had cried and hurt his own hands and had left marks on her arm; that she was married and did not know the face of the man at her side. They were a normal couple as long as she pretended the mask was a face. A very still, very cold, very pale face, with unnervingly pink spots at the cheeks and a permanent, artificial smile that became more and more disturbing the more you looked at it.

" –are you enjoying our stroll today, my dear?" Erik asked nonchalantly. He had just been talking about something completely different, interrupted himself, and proceeded to change the topic of the conversation for no apparent reason. He didn't even finish the sentence he was saying before cutting it off. Perhaps he noticed her pensive expression. He certainly never did before.

"It is fantastic, Erik," Christine replied, deciding to ignore his abrupt change of topic –she had not been paying too much attention to the previous one, anyway- and smiling at him. Her touch might never come out of a natural reflex or true desire, but her smiles undoubtedly did. "The weather is truly nice today."

"I am glad," he replied, as warmly as the smile that graced her face. He probably wore a similar one under the mask.

As they approached the cafeteria, and Erik gently let go of her arm to open the door for her, she looked at him once more with the dimpled smile. The sun shined on the surface of the white mask, and she noticed for the first time that his ears were mismatched: one had the helix folded over the antihelix, giving it the impression of being smaller, and was closer to the skull than the other. It was a strange shape, indeed.

Nonetheless, as her eyes left her husband's false face and turned to the inside of the cafeteria, she thought briefly that, here, in plain daylight, she could one day think of Erik and the word "husband" to be for one and the same.

Yet, the thought disappeared from her mind in an instant. The weight of the stares of every person on the cafeteria turned to her, to _them_ , -to _it_ \- as they entered. The loud conversation disappeared and was reduced to ill-intentioned murmurs that Christine's keen ears, having spent years among the crowds of gossiping performers, immediately recognized as judgments. Erik seemed to notice nothing.

He led her to a quiet table near a great window, as he commented something about the splendid crêpes the restaurant served. Her ears, however, only caught the distant murmur of the other commensals, feeling their penetrating stares follow their every step. Erik moved back her chair and allowed her to sit. He sat in front of her.

 _Look at that._

 _Oh, dear Lord above, is there no decency? What is that man wearing on his face?_

A waitress approached them, and Christine quickly ordered the first thing that came to her mind in automatic, corresponding the waitress' stiff smile with another equally forced, almost ashamed smile. Erik, with natural merriness floating in his voice, ordered a coffee, and Christine watched the silent astonishment of the waitress at Erik's voice. It was understandable, after all: the man made a picture taken out of a horror story, but his voice seemed dragged down from the heavens themselves.

He did not seem to notice the waitress' awkward response before quickly leaving the couple alone. In a way, Erik's perfect voice made such a contrasting effect with his being that it almost added even more to the discomfort his presence produced at first.

 _Look at him, Lizbeth, he looks so strange!_

 _That mask is so scary! How can she bear it?_

"I read in the newspaper that Mme. Lefevre's bakery was robbed a few days ago," Erik commented, trying to engage her in the conversation.

Yet, Erik's pleasant attempts at conversation were completely overshadowed by the pressing murmurs at their backs. Did it not bother Erik? The way they kept talking about him, staring at him, pointing fingers at him when he was only sitting there, peacefully talking about the news he read in yesterday's newspaper? She could feel their stares on her side; could see the gloved fingers blatantly pointing at them, just like when they were at the park and at the church. Christine had seen a woman's face go white at their presence; a man avert his eyes and awkwardly tilt his hat before hurriedly going away with his fainting lady; a girl point at Erik and ask her mother why "that scary man has a mask;" good Lord, an elderly woman at the church had started _praying_ at their sight!

She was a performer, she was used to stares and critics, but the constant and undesired attention suffocated her almost as much as the four walls in her room did. What bothered her the most, though, was how that attention was making her face blush, her hand run away from his, her fingers fiddle with the ring as if she were _ashamed_ of it. Ashamed of being seen with her _husband_.

Christine did not love Erik, and of that she was sure. But there was a great, infinite difference between not loving him and being _ashamed_ of him.

"That was truly a tragedy," she answered absently, "I hope she is alright."

 _He hasn't even taken his hat off._

 _How terrible manners!_

Terrible manners, indeed! Did they not see what _they_ were doing? Speaking overly loud behind the backs of a couple who were doing nothing but trying to have a pleasant meal together? Why did they care for his appearance, anyway? Was it any of their concern if he wore a hat indoors or a mask? Yes, it was unnerving and mysterious and impolite, but it was none of their incumbency whatever he wore or not. She, who was his wife and therefore the most entitled to anything that involved her husband, had no right to overstep his privacy, much less a bunch of strangers who evidently had nothing more interesting to busy their mind with! Those people had no _right_ to make her feel uncomfortable and _ashamed_!

"The owner was not there at the time of the robbery. The newspaper said the only damage was a broken window and missing money."

 _Do you think they are…_ courting _?_

 _Do not be ridiculous. That'd be scandalous! She's so young and lovely-looking. She would never let herself be courted by such a man! No respectable woman would._

Christine's ears burned red in shame. And _what_ if they were courting? _Why_ would that be wrong? That pair of ill-spoken women knew nothing! She could let herself be courted by whoever she desired! She was not less respectable for that. _They had no right to make her feel ashamed of her own husband!_

With deliberate exaggeration and anger, she moved her hand across the table to take Erik's. His muscles tensed under the pressure of her hand, and his fingers twitched in a flinch. The poor man always flinched at her usually-accidental touches, and always apologized for them, even when it was her fault. It broke her heart to see how unaccustomed he was to people's nearness and made her infuriation with the people around her and with herself even stronger.

 _Oh, God, they_ are _courting!_

 _Do they have no shame? Oh, the youth these days!_

Before Christine could do or say something else, the waitress came back with their orders. She placed the strawberry crêpes and the cup of tea in front of Christine, and the coffee in front of Erik. Christine noticed the ridiculous distance the waitress put between herself and Erik, stretching her arm as much as possible to avoid him completely, unlike with any other commensal. The woman's dry and stiff " _you are welcome, monsieur_ ", murmured between gritted teeth and wandering eyes only angered Christine further.

"You told me once that coffee was bad for the voice," Christine said after the waitress walked away, sounding perhaps slightly more recriminatory than expected. She was seeing red.

"And it is," Erik answered nonchalantly, as he raised the cup –as white and shiny as the mask- to the false, porcelain lips, "you must not drink it, my dear. We don't want you to damage that precious voice of yours."

"You should not drink it either," she answered, as she heard once again a distant murmur. She squeezed his hand in an effort to not frown. "Your voice is also precious, Erik; you will damage it."

"I –I will… not," Erik stammered, lowering the cup once again. He looked absently to the right, where the great window stood, and weakly returned the squeeze. She watched his ears go red.

She was so ashamed of _herself_. Ashamed and angered that other people's opinions and uninformed chit-chat were making her feel so bad.

 _Do you think he's… you know…_ wrong _?_

 _I wouldn't doubt it. Why else would a respectable man hide his face?_

 _Unless he's not respectable at all…_

Christine had enough. Her fork fell to the porcelain plate making a scandalously loud noise, killing off the abrasive murmurs at once.

"I am done," she announced to Erik, who was staring at her –just like all the rest of the people in the little cafeteria- with an unspoken question written all over his invisible eyes, "I want to go."

"But, my dear, you have not finished your breakfast, was it not of your liking?"

"It was delicious," she nearly growled, "I am full. Let's go, _husband._ "

Erik, without saying anything else, left his cup of coffee on the little plate and got up to go pay for their meal. His cup was as full as when it had first been served, even though he had raised it to the thin opening that served as the mouth of the mask multiple times. Just like with the tea he "drank" at home, he left the beverage intact.

Erik returned, and, suddenly looking as uncomfortable in his own skin as he tended to look at home, offered his hesitant arm for her. She took it firmly and pressed herself against his side with exaggerated emphasis before starting to walk out.

When they passed beside the table where the ill-spoken women sat, Christine made sure of not only slowly and deliberately shove her precious golden ring right at their ugly faces by pretending to rearrange her hat, but also let her own face show how much she had _appreciated_ their distasteful comments. She smiled smugly at the women's expressions of indignation.

Once outside the cafeteria, they kept walking in complete silence, Christine's ears still burning with anger. How could people be like that? Speaking such terrible things of a poor man who was doing nothing but having a nice meal with his wife? Who was doing nothing but taking a stroll on a nice Sunday morning? Doing nothing but peacefully sitting at Church? How could Erik be so damnably calm and not angered _at all_?

"Christine," he suddenly called, "Are you alright? Is there something wrong? Back there in the cafeteria… it did not look well and…"

"It did not _look well?_ That is _all_ you have to say? Erik, that was _horrible!_ " she exclaimed, abruptly stopping her pace. Erik looked at her with what she could only assume was confusion.

"Horrible? My dear, you are exaggerating. It is true that the place was not as fine as it was the last time I went; some of the tables needed cleaning, and the decorations on the walls could truly get some improvements, but the cooking is –"

"The _tables_? The _decorations_? Erik, where on Earth have you been this whole morning! Those _people_ were being _horrible_ to you!" Christine cut him off, letting his arm go in anger, "The _waitress_ avoided you as if you carried the plague!"

"Erik… ah, I did not notice…" he said in a weak, ashamed voice. His hands started to fiddle with each other. "I am sorry, Christine… people talk behind Erik's back and avoid Erik's nearness wherever he goes… all the time…"

"Oh, Erik…" she said. Her anger, burning hot just a moment before, melted into pity at his words. This poor man; of course he noticed nothing: he was so used to all that venom being spilled around him, that he had learned to pretend the bite no longer hurt. How could he bear it, though? Suddenly, the answer as to _why_ exactly would a person _chose_ to live underground came to her, and felt ashamed for having thought of him ill before for that.

"Forgive your Erik, Christine."

"Erik, no, please, don't apologize for this," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration, "It is not your fault that those terrible people do not know how to hold their tongues."

"But it is Erik's fault that everyone kept looking at Christine's direction," he replied, his voice becoming stronger, hardened by the anger, "I will do better next time, Christine. I am working on a mask that makes me look like everybody else. It'll be so perfect, Christine, that you will believe it is a true face."

 _Why do you not just show your real face and let this be over?_

"I'm sure it'll be impressive," she said in a resigned, quiet tone while taking once again her husband's arm and resuming their walk.

"Christine?"

"Yes, Erik?"

"I love you. Are you still angry?"

She looked forward to the street. Children were starting to flood the streets as they exited the school just a few blocks away. Women left the stores with endless boxes of shopping. Men gathered in groups to smoke and laugh. A distant carriage pulled by a brown, strong horse with a white spot on his back could be heard. The warm sun of midday softly made their rings shine. And suddenly it all looked _better._ Not great, not delightful, but _better._

"No," she answered, with a small smile just trying to tug at the corners of her lips, "I am not."

 **-0-**

 **Author's Note:** So, ah… guess who had half a chapter done, and then foolishly erased it all by mistake? Yup, it was me. Surprise, surprise! I swear this could have come way earlier if it had not been for that.

Y'know, I always thought that, if Erik ever got a partner, one of the things she would have to learn to deal with in an extremely insensitive 19th century society (that still kept deformed people in shows as if they were animals and found amusement in watching corpses in the morgue) was the constant stares and judgement they would receive whenever they are together in public.

Now, what do y'all think of the chapter? Protective Christine is my fav Christine, honestly. Because, hey, she might not love Erik, but at least we know for sure she cares about him now, no:)? I just hope the chapter had come off as confused and contradicted as Christine feels, but not too rushed (I'm not as satisfied with it as I should. I'll forever grief over my lost first draft:c)

Ah, I need to start taking notes of my own writings… I sometimes forget that my Christine is myopic or that Erik stinks… I think I'll have to go back to some chapters (especially ch. 8, which I have no memory of writing somehow?) to add more emphasis in this. I can't believe I made Christine be so near to Erik's naked hands and didn't make her almost throw up because of the smell! Shame on me.

But whatever, please leave a review!:) Oh, and happy holidays! Hope y'all had a wonderful time!


	11. Chapter 11

Part XI: Erik

Erik was deeply sorry that his poor Christine had been uncomfortable and had passed a bitter moment, but deep inside, even if admitting it made him the worst husband of the world, he was glad it had happened. No, he was not glad, he was deliriously thankful for it! Christine had not let go of his arm the whole day, -which was the greatest blessing and the worst of tortures at the same time... he could not help, at times, the immense and overwhelming urge to _free_ his arm of her burning touch. No amount of love or lust could miraculously cure the decades of loneliness and trauma he had suffered, but _he could try_ \- and what he had planned as a simple trip to the Church, a peaceful stroll, and breakfast before heading back home, had become a living dream!

They had gone to the stores, and he had spent hours watching Christine try on hats and jewels. He had bought for her everything her eyes had laid on top, as he was supposed to. A good husband always gives gifts to his wife, he knew. He had heard that some women also liked to buy clothes for her husbands, so when Christine had suggested going to the men's clothing store, his happiness could hardly be contained. She was being a good, good wife because he was being a good husband!

Erik tried on a few cravats, pocket watches, and hats, -all the coats he tried on, however, fitted him so poorly that they'd given up on their fourth attempt. He was, after all, too tall for an average French man, and though all his clothes were purposefully oversized to try to hide his unnervingly skinny complexion, the coats usually found on stores were too ill-fitting, even for his standards - but it was truly not as good as when she tried things on and he could openly observe. He also had to admit that, though his poor wife's stare was nothing but innocent, the way her eyes laid on his body, silently judging whether a blue cravat or a green cravat would complement his feeble and undernourished figure better, made his skin itch in unreasonable desperation to run. He did not like her looking at him so openly but remained quiet. Christine was doing nothing but being a good wife, and this was what normal couples did. It was just another small obstacle that he would have to learn to overcome to become a proper husband.

They had another pleasant meal at a different restaurant, this time purposely choosing a spot as farthest away from the other commensals as possible. He once again ate nothing and chose instead to order a drink that he once again could not drink -ah, but the beautiful pretense of holding the cup and raising it to the artificial lips of his mask, while behind it his true ghastly lips pursed as if casually sipping was priceless!-. He merely watched her eat, and talked of little nonsenses as he loved to do, even when his stomach growled at the sight of the baked potatoes and the chicken breast served on her plate. He had eaten nothing in... well, a long time. It was hard to keep track of useless little details like food or sleep when one was so deliriously happy.

Truth be told, when it came to meals, he could not wait for the honeymoon to be over: he had not allowed Christine to take any of the responsibilities she had now as a wife while in this time, despite her constant insistence -she had to enjoy this time together, relax, and see how good of a decision she had made when marrying him; how much he loved and worshipped her; not worry at all about boring domestic tasks!-, but once the two weeks were over, a part of Erik hoped they'd both fall in their respective roles. He could hardly hold the excitement at the idea of coming home one afternoon after a day of work and finding her there, with her precious hair tied back and an apron around her waist; the house filled with the delicious smell of food, of warmth, of love. He'd sit at the table, and she would place before him some delicious, hot dish she had made especially for him. She'd sit in front of him, and they'd hold hands across the table, just like they had done today during breakfast -another one of his fantasies completed, but which was sadly not repeated during lunch-. They'd eat and talk and laugh and everything would be just perfect.

He wondered if that was what Christine wanted as well. He would not force her if she did not, for he had sworn, decades before even meeting Christine, that if he ever found the blessing of a woman willing to share her life with him, he'd be her eternal slave. He'd dedicate his whole life to make sure she had no time to regret her decision, and now that he found himself happily married to a woman he was actually _in love with_ his determination was only stronger.

He brushed the sweet image off his mind as they left the restaurant arm in arm. Her nearness was intoxicating, the feel of her body against his arm and elbow driving him mad. He could hardly believe they had spent the whole day touching: hugging, holding hands, walking arm in arm. It was a thought so beautiful and strange that it made him smile like a fool all the time, making the rough material of his mask brush painfully against the already-raw skin of his face.

The sunset made the embroidery on Christine's hat and dress shine as they walked. She was quietly observing around them, distracted as always. He had known, since before their marriage, that she was a quiet and introvert woman, but sometimes in the last seven days he wondered if she had not become even more withdrawn than before... the few moments in which the old Christine –the Voice's Christine- came out and truly _spoke_ of her desires and adventures and dreams were such a treasure that sadly was rarely shown.

And it was always on times like those, when her eyes seemed to look at everything and nothing and her mind wandered to places he could never reach, that he began to worry. When they were alone in the safety of his home, he could distract her with silly parlor tricks, flood her heart with music, and fill her head with stories. But when silence prevailed between them, she could _think_. And what, indeed, did she think about? What could possibly occupy his wife's mind? Erik dreaded as much as he loved the idea that _he_ could be what she thought about. There was always a little voice in the back of his head whispering ill thoughts; mad ideas that she _might,_ somehow, know what was behind his mask. The irrational voice blamed it all on his face; it insisted that she knew the truth –one of his most common mental tortures had been the paranoiac, nocturnal obsession that she might find him maskless while he slept. In their six nights as husband and wife, he had not spent a single one without the soft rag of silk over the monstrosity he dared to call his face, even though his door locked as soon as hers did. In other, perhaps more wild scenarios, it was his loyal friend the Persian who betrayed his secret; in others she simply _knew_ -, and it insisted that her distractedness, her empty smiles, her lack of affection were all due to his face.

It was a prevailing thought that drilled his mind all the time, torturing him with the mere possibility that she might one day know the horror of Erik's rotten face.

But no. It was impossible, and the mere fact that she now walked beside him so peacefully, so nearly, meant that she knew nothing. And while her mind remained ignorant, her heart would remain open. He had a chance.

She was already his wife, after all. Now he just had to show her that he truly _deserved_ that title.

His dear wife, blissfully ignorant to the nearly agonizing mind of her husband, distractedly looked at the houses at the other side of the street. And Erik couldn't help but think what she saw on them. Perhaps, just like him, she yearned to live above ground, to have a house with windows that truly had crystals and a garden in which flowers grew; to have neighbors with whom to talk about little, boring things like the weather in the morning when they both met gazes while picking up their respective newspapers on Sundays. It was something so extraordinarily normal.

Well, if that was her dream, he'll grant it. The moment Christine agreed to spend her life with him, he decided to change. Erik no longer wanted to live in shadow, underground, alone and away from everything living. He wanted to live above ground, and ideas for a house were already swimming on his mind -it'll have to have a great garden where she could plant all the flowers she wanted, two floors, a library undoubtedly and a music room definitely. A golden chandelier could hang from the roof on their parlor, and Persian rugs could grace the marble floors-.

But he needed to know if that was what she wanted. Perhaps, as absurd as it might sound to him, she actually _liked_ their house on the lake, closed away underground like the death.

"Christine," he called, looking from behind his mask the petite woman, "do you find our current home comfortable?"

Christine was brought back to reality, and her gaze lazily left the structures of the beautiful homes before her to meet the hidden stare of her husband. She nodded.

"Yes, the house is very nice. I like it."

Erik's distorted mouth twisted in disagreement as he frowned. To Christine, of course, there was only the small curve of a mischievous smile on the white surface of the mask.

"But does Christine like it _very_ much?" He asked again, a bit more insistent. He really hoped she didn't.

"Yes, I like our house very much," she answered, smiling. There was no dimple on the side of her mouth nor wrinkles on her nose, which meant she did not like something. What exactly was that _something,_ however,was a perpetual mystery to Erik.

He sighed. His dreams of a house above ground would be nothing but dreams, it seemed. His wife liked their house a lot, and he wouldn't force her to leave.

The blueprints of the lovely house he always dreamed to have would remain locked on the drawer of his desk, and the small property he owned just outside of the city would remain bare.

Saddened, he looked around trying to distract himself from the gloomy thoughts that started to form in his mind. Luckily, his clever mind quickly found something else to gain his attention.

"Christine," he called, his excitement returning too rapidly for his poor wife to catch up with him at his idea, "do you want flowers?"

A skeletal finger covered in the thick leather of his new gloves extended towards a stand of flowers, too small to even be considered a shop itself. Though Christine could not see it, a grotesque smile of childish happiness had appeared on her husband's face.

"Oh, thank you, Erik, but no," she said softly, smiling a little so her words would not seem hard.

Erik looked at her, disappointment at his frustrated idea visible in his covered face. He tried to stare into her eyes, as he always did, trying to find another answer, another meaning for her words. After all, people –especially women- spoke with their eyes more than with their words. At least, those had been the words written in one of the romance novels he had read in preparation for his marriage, and, for lack of a better advisor, he trusted them completely –more so because the author herself was a woman, and who better to explain the intricacies of a woman's mind than a woman herself? The author advised to always see beyond the wife's words, for "a good wife shall never be greedy, and so she might neglect her own desires to show her worthiness."

And so he observed. He looked into Christine's eyes intensely, looking for an answer, an emotion swimming around in the depths of her blue eyes, just as he always did. He was quite apt at reading people –he had to, for otherwise, he would not have been able to master the art of manipulation- but even he had to admit to himself that Christine was the most beautiful enigma he had ever laid eyes on. It was just another small factor that made him love her even more.

Erik disentwined their linked arms and turned around without saying another word. He had found nothing on her beautiful but somehow nervous stare, but no matter. Women liked flowers. He should definitely bring her flowers more often –all books said that the death of romanticism was the death of the relationship itself, after all!-.

He took only a moment to gaze to the flowers on the stand, momentarily day-dreaming about his own splendid wedding day at the sight of the calla lilies; unable to repress the impulse to gently caress their petals as he remembered how beautiful his bride had looked before the altar with her pale hands firmly –perhaps too firmly?- grabbing the flowers. He erased the marvelous memory from his head quickly and paid the man at the other side of the counter a few coins that Erik did not even bother in giving more than a passing glance. It was definitely more than what a bouquet of flowers costed, but Erik cared not for the money. He had just gotten his salary a few days previous, so the flower vendor's insistence for him to take the rest of his money back fell on deaf ears as he ignored the man and crossed the threshold. Erik went back to his awaiting bride at the other side of the street with a confidence that rarely ever bloomed near her. She was all unexplored territory, hesitant moves, trial and error. But he was convinced, this time, that his clever mind had come up with an equally clever little trick that will grant him another one of those soul-caressing Daaé smiles… after all, this little old trick always made the little Sultana laugh.

Or, at least, at the beginning it did. It amused her for some time before she started to become bored with it and...

"Here, Christine, take them," he said, barely able to bottle up his child-like excitement enough for his words to not stumble over one another, as he extended the bouquet towards his wife, "a small proof of my sincere affections, my dear."

And he barely stopped a "they sing, Christine, they sing the music of the heavens!" before he said it. There would be no fun in ruining the surprise.

His precious Christine observed the bouquet for a moment -a brief, brief second, truly, but it was enough to make him wonder if perhaps he should have bought a basket of flowers, or perhaps four, like the ones he filled his house with the night of their wedding- before taking the flowers from his hands. She smiled timidly -not the smile he wanted, but each and every smile on Christine's face is equally appreciated- and brought the yellow buds to her face to smell their fragrance and then-

Ventriloquism was an ability Erik had developed since he was very young. As a lonely, neglected child, his dearest friends were those who could not reject his company: a little bug at the other side of the window, his mother's plants on the garden, an old mannequin that his mother used in her youth to try her dresses. All of them soundless. And so, he had given them life. Mr. Buggy spoke with a thick Russian accent, just like Rose spoke in the terrible, broken English he had learned in one of his late father's books. He had learned to give them his voice so he would not feel their lifeless silence.

And he had truly found that funny. To this day, in a moment of boredom, he sometimes still made an occasional teacup, a forgotten mask, or an abandoned shoe talk a little, just to not feel the solitude of his home overwhelming him too much.

So, in truth, Erik could not understand _why_ had Christine screamed and let go of the flowers when he had made them sing. It had even been a lovely Swedish song, and he was even sure he had done a pretty good first attempt at Swedish.

"What is the matter, dear?" He asked, brow furrowed in consternation as he bent down to pick up the flowers. A few petals had fallen off the bouquet.

"It -it _talked! It made a sound!_ " She said, and the expression of her face made Erik's heart sink to his stomach: fear. It was an emotion that he had seen so many times in so many faces that he could almost sense it, and yet, none of those times had he ever felt so miserable for it. He had scared her. She had not found it amusing, she had _feared_ his useless, little trick!

And he was about to explain it to her, truly! Erik was about to tell her that there was no reason for her to be afraid; was about to show her how simple and silly the trick was, but before the reassuring words dared leave his mouth –what if Christine was _angry_ at Erik?

Christine could get mad at Erik for having scared her. He had not wanted to, he truly had not! He just wanted to make his lovely wife smile, like this morning when she had bounced up and down, up and down in happiness when Erik told her they were going out! No, Erik could not risk his Christine being mad at him for such silliness, he'd ruin their lovely date! Foolish, foolish Erik! He had ruined it all! But he would not ruin it further, so instead of giving his wife the much-needed explanation, he opted for ignorance.

"Talk, Christine? How silly!" He said, his voice not betraying a single ounce of the guilt he felt.

"No, no, Erik, I promise that I –"

"It must have been your imagination, my dear, for Erik has heard nothing!"

"I –I am sure that it-"

"Pay no attention to that, dear, it was nothing," Erik said calmly, in the reassuring tone that he used back when he was The Voice. Erik saw that she was about to protest, and in a bold, desperate attempt to make her drop the subject, his hand moved to her waist, pushing gently against the material of her dress for them to keep moving. "Let us continue, Christine, for there is much yet to see and time is not on our side."

The abrupt, unexpected movement seemed to have the desired effect, for when he resumed his walking, with his hand still firmly at the soft curve of her waist, she said nothing. He had never before taken such liberty if not in the dark when she thought he did it for her safety and he tried to convince himself of that as well. In a single day, he had broken two of the promises he had made to her: to never tell her of his feelings without her request, and to behave like a friend. Erik could not bring himself to feel guilt.

Even now, when he could feel the muscles of his poor wife tense at the way his traitorous thumb lightly made circles on her side, he could not bring himself to care. The selfish part of him told him that he could –no, _should, must-_ continue. It was his duty… and his right.

But of course, that could not be, and to cut away all temptation from the root, his hand quickly dropped from her side, and instead, he offered his arm. He noticed that, when she quietly took it, her body stayed at the proper distance from his, and did not press at his side as it did earlier. Oh, well. Some pleasures could not last forever, and he deserved her coldness after having scared her. His Christine was a clever girl, and he knew it was a matter of time before she found out by herself his little trick.

So to distract her mind from wandering into directions that would do no good to their marriage, he spoke:

"The opening of _Faust_ will be in two weeks' time, and you will be performing on it- now, do not look at your Erik in such a way, dear. We must start rehearsing sooner than I should like it, I'm afraid. It might take a little time from our daily routines, but I promise, my dear, to be a gentle teacher until the honeymoon is over. Do not think for a moment that I would be as careless as to forget that this time of joy is for us and us alone."

Erik saw the hesitance in Christine. Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times before she answered:

"I am… glad to know you have no trouble with me performing still, as I told you before, but you said I was not to return to the chorus and…" Christine's soft, tentative voice trailed off, leaving her sentence inconclusive and Erik wondering for the rest. That curious tone, so unlike his usual Christine, had bothered him greatly that first time when she had first asked about performing, and he had since then noticed that she always spoke like that whenever certain subjects, which he assumed she thought them "sensitive" or "delicate", were discussed. He failed to remember –or rather, _avoided-_ that it was also the same tone she had used for the main part of their first days as husband and wife.

The Voice had never heard that tone. Not even when he proposed.

"That is true, my dear, but worry not," Erik answered after noticing that she was not going to finish her sentence, and hesitated only a small moment before giving her fingers over his arm a gentle pat, "leave it all to your loving husband. He knows exactly what needs to be done."

"I am not understanding, Erik," she said, her voice still too soft for Erik's liking, "what authority could you possibly have to put me in the spotlight in such a short time?"

Erik chuckled. Oh, his dear wife! Though he never directly intended to hide his position as the Opera Ghost to her –for husbands and wives should have no secrets, he believed firmly-, the topic had never come up. He knew, by the few conversations in which she had engaged with her fellow chorus members and which he had overheard, that she did not believe in ghosts. Funny how a bodiless voice teaching her to sing seemed normal for her, but a specter was beyond ridiculous. His wife never ceased to amaze him!

"Worry not for that, dear," he answered again. At the silent insistence in her face and the small furrow on her brow, he added, "one could say that I am more alike to a supervisor and a patron at the same time than to a casual Opera attendant. I am in charge of kindly suggesting our dear managers ways of perfecting every production, of assuring that my theater is working in the correct order, and that everyone is doing their jobs appropriately. I also make some small donations every once in a while, when my economic means allow me such indulgence."

That last was, of course, more rarely than not –recently, instead of helping his dear Opera House progress, he had been taking away more money than usual… but, of course, it was a small sacrifice that his Opera was willing to take for Erik's wife. Also, no part of the explanation was a lie, for he truly did all those things… even if his methods were sometimes not truly appreciated among the staff.

"Oh, I see," Christine answered, her head returning to see in front of them, "and please, do not think me ungrateful, for I truly am thankful for your help, but I would still appreciate if you refrained from influencing the managers' decisions, Erik. If I ever perform in a leading role-"

"Which Christine will absolutely do," interrupted Erik.

" _If,"_ continued Christine, emphasizing the word; her soft tone momentarily broke to show the strong will that he knew she truly had, "I get such a role, I wish for it to be because of my own talent and achievements, Erik, not because I am the wife of an influencing patron."

"But it _would_ be because of your talent, Christine!" Erik argued, "Before your husband, I am your teacher. Erik would never force you to perform if he were not convinced that you deserved the role and are capable of excelling at it. You were exquisite as Juliet during the gala night, and I am confident that you would be even more marvelous in _Faust._ "

"Even if I were," continued Christine, her tone no longer defensive, but also not yielding, "Carlotta is the leading singer, not I. She will be the first option for the role."

"Then you must be prepared to take the lead if she finds herself indisposed, my love," he added, and though Erik did not notice, his voice took a darker, flatter tone at the thought of Carlotta's beautiful but dull, lifeless voice screaming in terror. The Phantom of the Opera would have to make a small visit to her, perhaps.

"What do you mean, Erik? Carlotta has never missed a single performance in all her time performing. You surely must know that, since you never miss any of the Opera's events, either," Christine said, and Erik overlooked the cautious tone in her voice. If he had been looking at her, instead of looking forward, he would have also seen the way her eyelids lowered in suspicion.

"There is always a first time for everything, Christine, and this just might be our lucky day," Erik answered, and Christine found that she could not bring herself to ask for further explanation. A part of her feared the answer.

The couple fell into silence as they continued their walk, with one or two petals falling from the bouquet of flowers Erik still held in his free hand every few steps. The poor flowers were almost completely forgotten by the man now that his mind was occupied in more important matters, but Christine could not avoid stealing furtive, nervous glances to the offending object; almost willing it to dare to speak again. Erik pretended to not notice.

"Erik," Christine called in a timid and sweet voice, and Erik's masked face immediately turned to her direction. It was not that Christine was unkind to him on a normal day, on the contrary: she was much more than what a wretched creature like him deserved, but he had come to learn that when his precious wife wanted to ask for something, her voice became sweeter than of usual. "I was thinking that we are quite close to my Mamma's house and-"

"I have found a book that will surely interest you," Erik said, cutting her off before she could finish. He did not want to hear, for the third time that week, another excuse for her to leave his side and run back to her Mamma's open arms. The thought acted like a switch on his emotions, quickly turning his good humor into one of complete seriousness, even if at present his humor was not completely light –the idea of having to deal not only with a persistent diva but also with a pair of stubborn managers had quickly darkened his bright mood. "It is a collection of Asian folk tales. There is one in particular that I am convinced that –"

"Stop that. I know what you are doing, and I am tired of it!" she snapped, and for a small second Erik thought she would let go of his arm, but she seemed to change her mind at the last instant. She took a deep breath and continued, with a softer voice but just as firm, before he could interrupt again, "It would be a quick visit, Erik, truly. I would only leave an hour, two at most."

Leaving, leaving. She always wanted to leave! When he entered a room, she suddenly remembered that she had forgotten her embroidery work on the other room; when she went quickly to the kitchen for a glass of water she did not sit back beside him on the couch, but rather sat at an armchair alone. She seemed so happy to leave the house that morning, and now she was insisting on leaving his side as well. Was it truly so wrong of him to wish to spend some time with his wife, in this, their honeymoon? A time meant to be spent with the one you love, enjoying their company and getting to know each other, now as husband and wife? He asked for little, so little!

Instead of becoming angry as he so much wished to do, he breathed patiently. His wife was still getting used to being a wife, he said to himself, for what felt like the millionth time that week.

"No, Christine, we have already discussed this topic before, remember? My answer remains the same," he replied, not looking at her. He was trying to remain calm.

"Please, Erik, you must understand my concern for her well-being… she is truly sick," she pleaded, her voice becoming stronger in her desire to go, which Erik, in turn, took as desire to _leave him,_ "it is only a few houses from here."

"Stop this nonsense at once. Erik takes good care of her and you have nothing to worry about," Erik barked, and that seemed to ignite the same flame of anger in her, seeing all effort to reason with him to be in vain.

"Nonsense? Erik, she is my mother! And you are not allowing me to be with her in this time of need! She needs me!"

"She needs medical attention and constant care. Are you a medical professional, Christine? A nurse, a doctor? No, and therefore, your services are not indispensable."

"How dare you!" Christine exclaimed, indignant, "I know her, and she needs me there! She is all alone!"

"If you go, then _your husband_ will be alone as well!" He snapped back before he could think better of it. But instead of it softening Christine, she only seemed more adamant on her resolve.

"It will only be a couple of hours; I will return!"

"Stop insisting, Christine! Erik told you no already, and you must obey! This is our honeymoon and you shall do as your husband says!" Erik bellowed, taking her forearm.

"Well, then, it does not feel as such!" exclaimed Christine, freeing her arm in a brusque movement.

Erik felt the words sink like a rock on water.

"...Not a honeymoon…" he muttered; his hand, still in the air from where he had held her arm, falling to his side, "...not a wedding, not a wedding night… not a husband, not a wife… not a marriage…"

His spine suddenly stiffed, straightening him to all his intimidating height. His hands tensed at his sides. The mischievous, almost invisible false smile on the false lips of his mask suddenly seemed more _wrong_ than ever before; when at that moment his whole posture showed nothing but the coldness and detachment of the emotionless death.

He felt as such.

"We should go." He said, but the command in his dry, emotionless voice made Christine turn pale.

"Erik, I did not mean-"

"It is nearly time for dinner."

And he walked away, turning to where they just came from. He did not offer his arm, and she did not dare to ask for it.

The bouquet of flowers laid lifelessly on the ground.

-0-  
Author's Note: Oh, Lord, how long has it been? A century, a day?

I'm so sorry for the delay! This chapter was incredibly hard to write, and even after writing and rewriting it once and again I'm still unsure. Sorry.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it either way…:)


	12. Chapter 12

Christine did not understand the severity of her words, and it was not until her husband adopted an expression that she had immediately cataloged as a strange mixture of deep disappointment, anxiety, and rage –his shoulders slouched, his back hunched almost unperceptively, and his eyes, dead inside their empty sockets, seemed to come back to life in suppressed anger for an instant… then, so quickly that she even questioned its ephemeral existence, all of the previous details hid under a rigid posture, a distant voice, and a deadly still pair of hands- that she understood how greatly that harmless, thoughtless, little sentence had disturbed him.

But, of course, had the man not babbled nonstop, in every occasion that the silence hung over their heads and her instinct murmured at the distance for her to run away, about how wonderful she was as a wife? Was his eternal doubt of his role as a husband –"am I a good husband, Christine? Does Erik satisfies his Christine? If Erik did this, or if Erik did that, would he be a good husband, Christine?"- and his need to please her not evident in every meal he served, in every story he told, in every note of the music he played for her? Was his devotion for her not evident in the very way he sat at her feet, like a sad, old dog? Christine did not understand it, and perhaps she did not want to understand such deep desperation either, but it was evident that his worth as a husband was valuable for Erik.

She had touched a sensitive fiber without noticing it. Even now, that once again they found themselves suffocating in the silence of a carriage that softly rocked them in its slow motion, she had no idea what to say to fix the situation.

After all, she had not lied. She had not meant to say that –or maybe she did. Maybe she wanted, unconsciously, to make him feel as frustrated as she herself felt at that moment… she hated that the mere possibility had even crossed her mind- but that was no reason to say that. As much as Erik, in his ridiculous and idealized concept of marriage, insisted that between a man and his wife must be no secrets, of course there should be. If Christine said with complete honesty all that she thought, felt, or wanted, Erik's heart would crush.

It had been all the emotions of the day, she reasoned. She had not noticed it until now, but she was exhausted. A million things had happened in a day, and a million contradictory emotions had attacked her like a swarm of bees, ready to sting at the most minimum provocation. The enthusiasm from the prospect of once again seeing the daylight that transformed into shame at the hurtful and silent criticism; which in turn transformed into worry for Erik's safety, that later became anger at the realization that _no one_ had a right to judge her, him, or their choices, that became fear with the strange incident with the flowers just to resurface as anger again at his stubbornness and hurtful words, all settling inside her with no chance to leave her, until it slowly started to become too much, too overwhelming. Too many things that had pushed her to the edge had occurred in a single day, and Erik's irrational behavior had ended up being the last little pull that the string of her patience had needed to snap.

Because be not mistaken, she was still angry. Angry at his insensitive words, at his restrictions, at his obvious dismissal of her worries –as if she were talking nonsense! Christine knew what she had heard, her ears recognizing that old Swedish folk song immediately coming out of those ridiculous flowers. Add to that his harsh, uncalled for words when she had kindly asked him for permission to go seek her mamma, when he clearly knew how important her wellbeing was for Christine. She had sold her own life and future for Madame Valérius, for Goodness' sake! Was Christine's request for a few hours with her poor, frail guardian truly such a mad request, when Erik owned all her years to come?-… but she also felt bad for hurting him. She was in an eternal debt with him, and that was something that she should never forget, but, sadly, often did. In how other honest way, had it not been for Erik, would Christine had been able to acquire all the money she needed for Mdm. Valérius? And in such immediate time! Erik had promised her mamma's treatment would start as soon as they got married, and, to prove he did not speak empty words, a doctor had gone to see her poor mamma the day after their engagement. Besides, another part of her mind whispered, her heartless attack to his insecurities contradicted strongly her own reaction from earlier, when she acted all proper and indignant at other's cruelty towards Erik. She was behaving the same way if not worse.

It was a mixture of both anger and guilt, the first arguing that she had all the right to having answered the way she did after his awful behavior, and the second repeating over and over again that she had hurt him with something that he deeply cared about; the emotions fighting for domain over her.

Christine sighed. She felt exhausted, and dwelling any longer on the earlier events would give her nothing but a headache.

All she wanted was a deep, dreamless sleep, like the ones her dear pappa used to tell her that could cure any wrong in the world.

Christine raised her sight –she had been looking, without truly seeing, the knot on Erik's shoe laces, sitting before her in a rigid and immobile posture- and observed him: his dead eyes, which came back to life like the phoenix in the darkness, remained dead, hidden behind his invisible eyelids.

This, instead of bringing her the usual protection and comfort, only disturbed her. His eyes, so deep in the mask's sockets that that first night in which they met she had thought him to have no eyes at all, had a mystic and inexplicable quality, terrible in all the extension of the word when they looked at her as if every word that came from her mouth held the power to raise or doom entire worlds. And yet, the lack of that infernal glow behind the mask bothered her, as if they tried to punish her with their absence.

She moved her hand to place it above his; still and bony and as horrible to feel even through the leather as always, resting lifeless over his knee. He moved it away as soon as the tips of her fingers grazed him, crossing both arms over his chest in a single gracious movement that, had it not been because all the rest of him emanated indignation, could have passed as a mere casualty. But Erik was not a man of casualties, and his rejection stung her.

Had Erik ever rejected her touch before that night? No. He had never rejected her, for he had never needed to: she never got close to him out of free will and, on the contrary, avoided him as much as possible without revealing her secret repulsion towards her own husband. She had never permitted him as much access as today, and now the roles were reversed.

It felt as a pinch to her pride, and she wondered if Erik felt like that whenever she moved a few centimeters away on the sofa, with the complete intention of not letting even the hem of her skirt to brush his shoes.

She felt the thorn of guilt she already had digging deeper into her chest at her own realization, but before she could stop to examine further that unexpected reaction, the carriage stopped before the Rue Scribe.

As soon as the tranquil pace of the horses stopped being heard, Erik opened his eyes and got out of the vehicle, as if he could not stand a single more second being there, with her, and the thought once again shot a strange, uncomfortable sensation to her guts. Christine got out after him, and, as it was already their routine, he did not offer his hand to help her. For a second she wished he did.

Erik did not even bother in looking to the endless bags and boxes of shoppings that flooded the carriage and she, not wanting to speak, made no comment on them, either. She felt silly for worrying for something as irrelevant as the imported Swedish chocolates that would undoubtedly melt if they left them on the carriage.

Erik moved towards the entrance without even looking to the coachman's direction. Christine turned around to look at the man, ready to show him an apologetic smile for her husband's rude behavior, but the coachman was already preparing for leaving, not bothering either in looking towards Erik nor her. As she started following Erik, she wondered if the man was just already used to that kind of ungrateful attitude.

At the gate, Erik turned back just once; a quick glance over his shoulder that gave Christine hope that the overwhelming silence with which he seemed to be punishing her was over. But instead, the golden sparks in the bottom of the eye sockets looked behind her, around her, above her. Never at her.

Then he opened the door.

Christine did not expect it, but suddenly, her husband moved towards her and before she could even think of opening her mouth, he picked her up on his arms, much like he did on their wedding night. She immediately tensed, but, after a whole day forcing herself to get used to the feeling of his skeletal touch, her reaction no longer came out of disgust, but rather a mixture of surprise and the initial scare for the unexpected action. Erik seemed to not notice or care. He must be already used to her tensing at his touch.

He quickly crossed the entrance of the lower levels of the Opera House with her on his arms, and she saw no choice but to cling to his neck and shoulders, in fear he might drop her. The only sign that he registered the movement was the shuddering breath that escaped through the fine opening that served as the mask's mouth, and the sudden clench of his skeletal fingers at her sides.

As he lowered the stairs with a firm pace, she couldn't help but wonder, not for the first time and definitely not for the last time either, how a man who looked so thin could have such strength. Ah, but she was missing the bigger picture: how could any man know to where he went, in a darkness as thick as ink? Christine could see nothing at all, but Erik's steps never faltered.

As soon as they reached the house on the lake, Erik unlocked the door and quickly got in. Christine only knew to be inside the house for the sound of the dripping water falling on the lake being reduced by the door closing behind them, and with that cutting the salty, dirty smell of the catacombs. He did not even bother to turn the lights on for her, and hurriedly left her on the couch before disappearing.

She only knew him to have moved because of the sound of his bedroom door slamming shut and, for a moment, there was no sound but the one of her own beating heart.

Christine was left alone in the blackness of the drawing room, and she thought that it had never felt so immense and disorienting. Erik always lit all the lights of the house, and didn't leave a single corner forgotten. Like that, in the cold gloom of a dead house, it was impossible to not feel that the walls closed around her, that the ceiling tried to crush her, that the floor softened under her –she felt, again, as if she were inside a coffin, buried alive under the four levels above her head and all the rest of Paris, that now rested in undisturbed slumber.

But now, in the sepulchral silence of the darkness, the fact was once again fresh in her mind.

And yet she did not hate it as much as she expected, or even as much as she had during her first few nights, when she still feared every shadow and corner of the phantasmagorical underground prison that was now her house. She did not hate, now, those same walls –some naked, with the bare stone so clean that shined under the light on the evenings spent sitting before a roaring fireplace; others, with some kind of boring wallpaper of neutral, masculine, elegant colors- that for seven days and seven nights had guarded her as a beast with a princess in some old tower.

She did not hate, either, the furniture, nor the frozen floors, nor the suffocating, still air that stunk permanently like mud with an inerasable touch of the flowers that had flooded the room on their wedding night, and that no longer suffocated her as much.

She felt, for some reason, an unexpected _peace._

Christine had loved the sun, and the flowers growing freely and wildly, and the warm, clean air that blew on her cold cheeks, and the well-done meals –not too much salt, not too tasteless, accompanied by teas whose names she could pronounce-, but she had not loved the people. She had felt their stares, their murmurs, their wrong and uninformed judgments leaving her bare and naked, uncomfortable in her own skin.

She had felt their terror. That same terror that she herself had felt for a week resulted, for some reason inexplicable for her, offensive coming from others. And, as always, her impulsive spirit had taken control over her, and had demonstrated more love and solidarity than she truly felt on her heart for the poor man that loved her and that she had married out of desperation and need.

The guilt came back, and this time it overshadowed her anger, cooling it down to a mere spark compared to the roaring blaze from earlier.

And then the music of an organ started.

Thunderous, paralyzing music. Music so horrible it seemed to cut on her ears; penetrating each pore like needles on her skin, digging deeper and deeper until she felt the horrific sound traveling through the marrow in her bones. It drilled her head; it hammered her mind.

Christine bent down; forehead against knees, and covered her ears with her palms. It was not the volume, for in truth, even with her hearing augmented because of her lack of vision in the pitch black of the room, the music was not that loud.

It was the sentiment. Horrific, soul-crunching loneliness and rage and hate and desperation and frustration and lie and sorrow all flowing like a waterfall from the notes; falling over Christine, suffocating Christine.

Somehow, Erik knew how to make an instrument _scream_ with all the sorrow of his heart.

Still frozen in that position, trying to block away the hellish sound, Christine remembered that night when she had awoken to the penetrating sound of his scream, product of a nightmare. That awful noise had somehow come out from the same place as The Voice.

Then she remembered his music. His true music; not whatever devil was now coming out of that room. His music had elevated her soul so high it could fly in heaven. Had driven her to the highest ecstasy and made her blind of euphoria.

His voice, his hands... Christine understood then that sound in itself was Erik's domain. It was his servant, his willing slave. Erik could bend sound with the mastery of a spider twisting and crafting its web. He could create the most heavenly and the most hellish of sounds with equal effortlessness, and she was condemned to suffer and rejoice in both.

The man was inhuman... and her every action and word could bring out either the demon or the angel in him.

Yet, even in the agonizing spell of the infernal sound, she remembered his humanity: that same night, when she had awoken to the sound of his screams, she had seen a more vulnerable side of him. No longer the life-sucking need of his desperate grip, or his pressing, expectant tears, but rather, a man that had just battled against his own inner demons on his own.

And, somehow, perhaps under the influence of his music or the tiredness of the day or just the raging, contradicting emotions of both anger and guilt, with that last thought she fell asleep, still curled up in the corner of the couch.

: :

Christine did not know how long she slept, but by the time she woke up, the room was already illuminated by the soft glow of the gaslight and blessedly submerged in silence. She had somehow changed position; from the awful way in which she had fallen asleep, with her face between her knees and her body curled on itself in fetal position, to laying down all across the couch, her feet barely hanging out of the edge. A pillow had been accommodated under her head and a quilt had been placed over her body.

When she tried to move, her neck and back protested and she unconsciously made a face of discomfort.

"That was a terrible position to sleep in. Your body will be sore, as consequence," Erik's voice came from besides her; his tone relaxed but unreadable.

He sat at the armchair, with the light of the flames dancing on the surface of the black mask, and the shadows hiding the scratches and the missing leather pieces he had ripped in his desperation nights ago. His hands stayed tense but motionless at the ends of the arm-rests. He was looking at her, and she had the fleeting thought that he had been doing so for a while, awaiting for her to awake.

"Erik thought about Christine's words from earlier," he continued at her silence. The light of the fire illuminated only partly his scrawny shape, hiding with light the natural glow of one of his eyes. Christine could almost swear that not even the cloth of his barbed mask moved with his breath. "And he realized that Christine is right: Erik has been a careless, neglecting, bad husband."

His voice, once again, betrayed no emotion, but in his unnatural stillness, the twitch of the tendons of his hands immediately caught her eye; the only proofs that his own words had any effect on him.

Immediately knowing something was off –the words "bad husband" stuck in the back of her mind- Christine sat down, ignoring the way her back and neck hurt at the sudden movement, ready to protest his statement. That was not what she had mean at all, and, now without the layer of anger, his words only brought back her guilt. She truly did not mean to say that. But Erik proceeded before she even opened her mouth:

"I demand a kiss."

And Christine, for a second, only sat there, staring at him blankly, trying to make sense of the words that hung heavily on the air between them. Then she understood, and her stomach knotted when she comprehended what he had asked of her.

Was he going to allow her to see him? After what had happened –she might forgive him, just like he forgave her, but the memories would never be erased-, the mere idea sounded… impossible. Her hand moved slightly in a barely-repressed impulse to hold the wrist that no longer bore the marks of his dead grip, which rapidly faded under her daily care.

"Par-pardon?" she babbled, unable to say anything else, like a fool.

"Exactly as you have heard, Christine," he restated, standing up in a fluid, controlled motion. His hand smoothed out the wrinkles on his oversized, blue dress-coat that matched her dress. "I demand a kiss. This is my honeymoon, and since my wife is so adamant in forgetting it, presumably because I have been careless enough to allow her so, Erik shall remind her of it. Now, kiss me."

He did not move but three single steps. He stood there, giving his back to the roaring fire, waiting for her to come to him.

"I- I would have to see you," she blurted out without thinking, and she realized that, even through her mind-consuming curiosity, a part of her would always fear to see behind the last barrier. She told herself that she feared to trigger another one of his manic episodes with her closeness, ignoring the way her mind whispered that there was no use in trying to fool herself. She quickly added, before she could realize something she did not wish to acknowledge: "I would have to take off your mask."

"No need. I shall kiss you. Come."

Christine nearly felt her head spinning. The command was clear, leaving no space to argue, and a part of her, her Catholic duty, perhaps, whispered for her to obey her husband. She had denied him enough, after all. And it would not be so terrible, she tried to reason. His hands were cold, and clammy, and bony, and calloused, and disgusting but not dead. She had held those hands twice, skin against skin, and they had not been dead, for the overly-protuberant blueish veins pulsated with the life of a beating heart. She had to remind herself that something that could create such vivid and colorful music, both the heartwarming and soul-crushing, could not be dead. His lips against hers would not be dead nor demonic, either, for his angelic voice came from between them.

But a kiss was not at all the same as a hand-holding, and lips were not like hands. No, a kiss was… intimate. An act of love. She had only ever kissed before once; a blond boy at the shore of the sea, as a final goodbye after a marvelous summer and a promise of faithfulness, as she had told her dear Voice in what seemed a lifetime ago. It had been sweet, short, adorable; born out of childish, natural, innocent love, unlike now, that she felt nothing but the knot of nervousness and slight fear not only at the action in itself but the prospect of being once again so close to her husband's face, tightening like a heavy rope at the pit of her stomach.

She cut out that memory the moment it started playing on her mind, deeply ashamed at the sudden warmth that appeared on her cheeks at the ghost sensation of soft, salted lips against hers, and instead raised from her seat in wobbly, weak legs at the insistence in her husband's eyes –not that she could see them, but Christine could feel their awaiting pressure on her-. Her hands fisted lightly at her sides, holding her skirts as she advanced towards him.

As she walked towards him, her eyes glued on the way the flames painted dancing patterns on the ends of his baggy suit and ruined mask, she thought that he once again resembled a creature from a nightmare, not unlike the one she thought him to be the first night they met. And yet she found, strangely enough, that each step she took loosened the knot of anxiety, and was slowly replaced by a blatant determination. She stood in front of him, barely a foot away, and arched her neck to see him towering over her small frame in its gloomy rigidness. He took a step forward, coming so close to her that the spicy cologne he wore, now diluted with sweat and his natural odor of death, hit her like a wave. And yet she did not falter. She looked into his empty sockets, expecting to see something never seen before in its depths, but only the blinding spark of his golden eyes stared back at her; the secrets hidden behind the mask still unrevealed to her because of the partial light, glowing from behind Erik in a morbid parody of the angel her poor mamma thought him to be.

For a moment neither of them moved; Christine frozen in strong determination –the source of said determination, however, was unknown to her. If she had stopped to think, she might have reached the conclusion that this was her way to apologize for hurting him, or a proof to herself or to him or to both of them that she had the strength to do this now and for the rest of their days, or to show him that their deal was never too far from her mind, or a thousand other things… but at that moment, Christine's thoughts were just as paralyzed as her body-, feeling the natural warmth of his body emanating from him, hyper aware that nothing but a small movement would close the little distance remaining. She just felt him observing her, and, just like she had suspected in the carriage, for the first time in their short marriage his intrusive eyes were not completely unwelcome. She was expectant, her eyes glued to the dark mask before her; trembling but not from fear.

Erik unclasped his hands from behind his back, and Christine saw them tremble as they approached her face. For a second they just stood there, millimeters away from her cheek; feeling the leather of his glove barely touch the few invisible hairs that covered her skin. She could not break his stare, even as a shudder ran down her arms.

A single digit caressed her cheekbone, and Christine had to stop herself from leaning into his touch. This realization hit her so strongly that she almost missed the way his fingers seemed to hesitate before retreating, leaving her skin warm, wanting and nearly untouched.

"Close your eyes," Erik breathed, a sound so beautiful and innocent that Christine's eyelids obeyed without a second passing.

She felt the tip of his fingers barely touching her chin, guiding her face higher, and the contact felt so strangely _right_ that breath stuck on her throat. Then she felt his lips –thin, angled, as if he had moved his head to the side and only half of the lips had touched her- against her forehead, trembling behind the barrier of the silk in the new, completely foreign effort of leaving a gentle, caste kiss upon skin.

Her stomach tensed at the strange, tangible, warm proof that her husband had a mouth and lips under the mask; with the sensation of both satisfaction and dissatisfaction at the same time extending through her abdomen for the split of a second that the contact lasted.

Then she felt his rigid mask, warmed by the closeness of the fireplace behind him, against her forehead, and the shaky sigh coming out of her husband's mouth made the silk wave, tickling against her lips and nose; the contact so light that it might as well could have been another of his kisses.

She opened her eyes slowly to see him there, closer than ever before; with his fisted hands tense and motionless at his side, and only the mask between them continued to be as both their contact and barrier. The spark of his eyes disappeared into the blackness of the sockets of the mask, and she realized that he was feeling just as shocked by the experience as she felt.

"Oh, Christine, Christine…" Erik whispered, breathing slowly, making her name sound like a desperate prayer. In that moment, she wished to hear it a million times more. "Forgive your Erik. He is such a greedy husband, asking so much of his poor, innocent wife…"

Then the heavenly whisper transformed into an awful sob, and his soft words became harsh, unsettling, and the soft peace that had slowly warmed her disappeared in an instant.

"Erik is so bad, so, so bad…" he said, and Christine did not know what to say or do. She felt like even a breath from her would break loose the terrible storm that the sobs announced was coming.

"Is he, truly? Is he truly as bad as he claims to be? I beg of you, tell me he is not!" Erik sobbed, and tears fell from behind the silk to the ground between their feet. "Is he taking advantage of his wife? Erik asks, and asks, and asks, and Christine gives, and gives, and gives..."

Christine released a heavy breath through her mouth, and their closeness made the silk of his mask move, now with the force of her breath. The movement made the cloth grace his lips, and his shoulders seemed to lose the tension; just slightly, at the sensation.

It was the closest he would ever have to a kiss from Christine's mouth.

"But oh, Christine, Erik is so weak," he continued, "He becomes nothing in your hands. Never before had a mortal woman made him fall to his knees in tears of yearning. Yearning for her, for her love!"

And in a bold move that she did not expect, Erik took her hands and brought them to his heart. Her breath stuck on her throat, and in the fraction of a second that a mildly coherent thought lasted on her mind, she thought that her husband would never stop taking her by surprise, with her guard lowered.

Even through the many layers of clothing, she felt the poor heart beating wildly under her fingers and the strange, nearly foreign sensation made her own heart beat harder; a mirror of rhythm pulsating in her own chest.

"You make me fall in weakness, and I cry for you and I; for Erik knows you love him not and he loves you more than any other man, mortal or not, could even fathom to do!"

And he fell to his knees before her; burying his mask against her stomach, wetting her dress with his tears for the second time in a single day. He held her hands still, and she, moved to tears herself at the sight of his own, intertwined their fingers together, hoping to put an end to his tears and bring him comfort. The image had an eerie resemblance to the night of his near unmasking, and though her heart held no fear at the moment, unlike that frightful night, the disturbing similarity sent a shiver up her spine.

She had to glance down to her dress, to his hands; looking for the tiny self-made cuts on his palms that had stained the hem of her dress that night as he wept. Her heart seemed to lose its tension at the sight of the clean cloth; squeezing his hand with their fingers intertwined in relief.

The action, however, only seemed to startle him, for he moved away so quickly that he fell backwards, mumbling apologies that she could not understand.

"Erik," she called him softly even though she did not know what to say.

"It was him," he said, cryptically. He had not moved yet from the floor, still in the position in which he fell; every muscle under the oversized suit tense and trembling.

It was as if the strong, commanding, dominant husband who had forced her wobbly legs to support her weight and her frozen feet to take her to him with nothing but the will of his stare and voice had never been there. The light of the fire behind him cascaded over him, emphasizing the scratches on the leather, and Christine nearly wondered if the two were even the same man.

"It was him who did it. Erik did," he continued, "Erik made the flowers talk."

"Like this," said the gaslamp, and Christine turned her head so quickly, startled and gasping, that her neck popped.

"Así," said the couch. Her head moved involuntarily in its direction, and her hand flew to her heart; still beating hard from the unexpected scare.

"Comme ça," said the carpet.

"Så här," finally said Erik's hand, which he kept open and raised for her to see. He lowered it, and added, "Erik is many, many things, and ventriloquist is just one of them."

A ventriloquist. A trick. Just a trick. The memory of her time traveling with her papa suddenly filled her mind. She had once come across a traveling fair with a man whose act was making a puppet talk. As a little girl, no older than six, she remembered having sat on her dear papa's knee, with the smell of candy in the air and the sound of the crowd clapping, as the man in the stripped suit moved the doll's mouth and she, in turn, told most hilarious things little Christine had ever heard. She remembered thinking it magical, even charming; and she wondered why she couldn't feel the same now. Oh, how easier things would be if she could honestly be charmed by her husband's peculiarities!

But she was not. She was relieved, but nowhere near charmed.

She sighed, repressing the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose; an unlady-like habit acquired from Professor Valérius that always made her poor mamma distress.

"This means that you lied to me, Erik," Christine said after a moment, feeling suddenly as tired as before she slept.

"He did. I'm sorry."

"Please, refrain from doing that," she said, and immediately wondered to what, from everything in the long list of things he did that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand, was she referring to, "you truly gave me quite a scare, Erik."

"I know. I'm sorry. Forgive me, forgive you Erik!"

She couldn't deal with that right now. Christine felt too tired, too worn out for his pleading, his begging. She hated seeing him like that; rambling words of regret in near histerics, speaking as if him and Erik were not one and the same.

All she wanted was to be at peace again. She didn't like it when they were angry at each other, nor when he cried, nor when she felt as crying. She wanted to be happy; to have an enjoyable evening with him. Christine knew it was possible; the whole day had been a proof that, if they both put their heart on it, they could not only be tranquil with each other, but truly _happy_. It was a fragile happiness of blurry edges, in which she had to squint her eyes to see through everything that was clearly not right -the tea never drank; the suit never filled; the face never revealed- but it could happen. It could.

But not like this. Today had been a proof of how good things could be, but it had also opened her eyes of how terrible her life besides Erik could be if she did not told him what she wanted, liked, and needed.

She sighed.

"Erik," she said, and the only visible eye, shining and frightening and so vulnerable, looked in her direction, "what you did was not right."

"Erik-"

"Please, wait until I am done, husband. I need to speak first," she said shakily yet full of conviction while raising her open palm to stop him. A little voice deep in her consciousness reprimanded her - " _a good wife must always listen to her husband first! If he wants her to talk, only then she does so_ "- before she quickly dismissed it. If she wanted to find peace and happiness in this marriage, she would have to forget everything she had learned before, for Erik was no ordinary husband and theirs was no ordinary marriage. It seemed that, regardless of how many times she kept repeating this to herself, she still had issues accepting it. "What you did today was wrong. I do not appreciate being lied to. It scared me, and then you made me feel as if I had lost my mind when you pretended not to know about the flowers. I need to know: why did you do that?"

Christine maintained her expression neutral, her voice firm but not abrasive, knowing that if she spilled anger, he'd break.

"Erik thought Christine would find it endearing. It is a simple trick... some people call it magic... does Christine like magic?" He said, and made no move to try to stand. Had Christine been able to see inside her husband's head, she would have discovered that he felt he had no right to stand on his feet before her after demonstrating such ungentlemanly behavior. "There is no such thing as magic, but Erik can and shall do anything for Christine."

His voice, already small at the beginning, became weaker with each word, and her heart filled with a pity almost strong enough to tell him yes, that she loved magic, that he could do all the magic he wished and she would not be angry; that her father used to make silly magic tricks for her with some old, stained cards that he always kept in whatever pocket did not have a hole yet. But giving in to those kind of impulses would only get her stuck again in the same cycle, and Christine could not, would not, go through that again if she had the power, here and now, to at least _try_ to fix it.

"I appreciate your efforts to make me happy, husband, but please do not lie to me," she said slowly, tentatively, as if walking on a tight rope. "If you knew for a fact that I was not imagining things when I saw the flowers talk, you should have told me so."

"Erik thought Christine would get angry at him for scaring her…" Erik murmured, sounding like a defeated child. "Erik wants Christine to be happy with him, never angry, never sad…"

Christine said nothing, knowing that, considering how fragile her nerves were that day, he was likely right. She held back the impulse to sigh again.

"It was still wrong of you to lie so blatantly to me in such a way."

"I'm sorry. Erik shall never tell a lie to Christine again. Ever."

"You also hurt my feelings when you told me I was not necessary for my dear mamma," Christine added. "That was extremely unkind of you. She needs me as her support."

"I am sorry. Erik was being selfish. He wants Christine all for himself and does not want her to ever leave his side. Is that wrong, for a lonely man to yearn for the company of his wife?... yes, it is, is it not?" he asked, sounding defeated. "It pains me greatly that I caused you harm again. Erik shall never lie to Christine again, nor be cruel to her. I will not let him."

"I am glad you realize the error of your ways," she said, smiling softly, "do you promise not to lie to me again, or say such heartless things? If we want to be happy, Erik, I need for you to not do such a thing again… and I'm sorry, husband, but I am not an object. I am your wife, and I obey your word, but I am still a person of my own, with my own heart, and a mistress of my own actions. I can love my mamma, and still hold you dear."

"Erik knows… and I do not wish to strip you away from your character, Christine. That is what makes you yourself, and it is you who I love. If I deprive you of what makes you whole, you will not be the woman I love… does the love for your mamma makes you whole, Christine?"

"Yes, it is, Erik. It is my love for her, for my music, and for my freedom what makes me myself."

"Then I shall love you with all of that, as well."

Christine's hard façade finally fell, opening her heart for him at the sight of such sincerity in those lonely, amber eyes. She lowered to his level in once again mirroring image to the night of the near unmasking, but this time, her words did not come out of fear, and did not shake in repressed tears.

And this time, it was Christine the one who brought him to her arms.

-0-

A/N: It has been nearly a year since the last time I updated. I needed a whole pandemic to happen for me to finally write. Oh, well.

I guess next chapter will come when the aliens invade us.


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